There'll Be Bluebirds Over Blackheath
by SimoneSez
Summary: The liberation is at hand, but not all of Hogan's men are present and accounted for.  OC-heavy.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the series characters from _Hogan's Heroes__. _I do own the original character Bluebird.

**APRIL 1942**

The cold drizzle wasn't making the wait in these woods any more tolerable. How much longer? She'd been led to believe that Colonel Hogan ran a remarkably efficient operation… well, where was her contact? Had he run into trouble somewhere?

A twig snapped nearby. She held her pistol at the ready and advanced gradually towards the sound.

She spotted him when ten or fifteen feet still separated them… a man, dressed head to toe in black, and she couldn't see his face because he had his back turned. What she _could _see in the moonlight was the glint of a gun in his right hand… and she was taking no chances. She trained her own weapon on him and said, in a tone that wouldn't be argued with, "Hold it."

The man turned to face her… unbelievable; what part of 'hold it' hadn't he understood? Then she could see that his face was smudged with black… probably to reduce his visibility, but he wasn't doing much _else _to protect himself in her opinion. And he still held his gun at the ready, like her own. Stalemate.

"Nice and easy…" he began in a heavy English accent, "lower your gun."

She lower _hers? _"Not a _chance__._"

He leaned closer to get a better look at her. "What in the… what are _you _doin' out here in the middle of the night?"

That wasn't the recognition code. But there was still a good chance this Englishman who didn't pay attention and didn't follow procedure _was _her contact… and he _was _an Englishman; that was a good sign. She decided to chance it. "Papa Bear?"

His mouth opened slightly but nothing came out for a few seconds. "Oh, you're jokin'…"

She lifted her gun a little higher. "You'll notice I'm not laughing."

"Don't tell me _you're _Bluebird!"

_That _was more like it. "Why didn't you say that in the first place?"

He let his own weapon fall to his side. "No… _no…_"

Hers dropped as well. "What's the problem?"

"The _problem _is standin' here in _front _of me… you're a _girl."_

"Nice spotting."

He shook his head and cast his eyes skyward. "Oh, marvelous… do you know what Colonel Hogan's gonna say when he lays eyes on _you_?"

"I was _assigned_ here!"

"And what bleedin' idiot came up with _that _idea?"

"I can do my job!"

"Fine; if we ever need a chambermaid, we'll ring for you!"

"Now _listen…_"

"Colonel Hogan'll have my _head _if I bring _you _through the tunnel!"

She lost about half her righteous indignation on the spot. "You… you're gonna just… _leave _me out here?" She hated the way it sounded… fearful, almost desperate… but it _had _finally occurred to her that he could do just exactly that if he felt like it, and there wasn't a whole lot she could do about it. Karl had dropped her off at least a mile away… she could find her way back to the road, she knew that, but then how would she find Karl? If she wasn't what Hogan had been expecting… she _did _know that his operation was run from a POW camp, but she _had _been assigned to the unit and she had figured there must be a reason… he _could _refuse to take the risk of exposing their setup to her. She suddenly realized she had been very naïve… and very lucky, up to that point. Things had always worked out pretty well… but because of that, she was somewhat ill-equipped to deal with situations like this one.

Their stalemate was broken when over to her left they both heard heavy footsteps and the barking of a large dog. "Oh, charmin'…" the man in black clothing grumbled.

"If you're not taking me with you, let me _go,_" she told him in a hushed whisper. "_Now_!"

He looked like he was still on the fence about it for another couple of heartbeats… then reached to take her wrist firmly in his hand. She tried to pull away, but he held fast. "Come _on_… if I'm to be court-martialed anyway, I'd rather it not be for lettin' those dogs rip you to shreds."

It was good enough… at least for the moment. He wasn't pleased and neither was she, but she _was _going to see Colonel Hogan, and then maybe _he _could tell this rude, hard-headed lackey of his just exactly why she'd been assigned to this prestigious operation… after all, he _had_ to have a reason, and even if it wasn't immediately obvious, it would be revealed in time.

A _good _reason.

She hoped.

**00o00**

"What kept you?" Hogan demanded as Newkirk climbed over the rail at the top of the ladder to join the rest of them in the barracks.

"Sir…" Newkirk stopped, thought, ran the back of his hand across his jaw, shook his head. "I can't explain it, sir… you'll have to see it for yourself."

"You didn't make contact with the operative?"

"I did, sir."

"Well, where is he?"

"I…" There literally were no words to cover it… instead, Newkirk leaned over the opening in the floor and called down into the tunnel. "_Get _up 'ere," he ordered brusquely.

Not exactly the most welcoming way to treat a new team member. But Hogan had to admit, he felt like snapping at somebody himself when he saw what followed Newkirk up the ladder.

A girl. A _girl!_ He looked three times and still couldn't believe his eyes. He'd bet no more than five foot four, a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. She would have looked right at home on Main Street in any small town in America. Well, except for the camouflage and the sidearm. Her dark hair was cut short and looked as if it had been styled that way with hedge clippers, roughly and with no finesse. He actually found himself speechless for a few seconds. Then he found his voice. "Is this London's idea of a joke?"

Well, she'd gotten off on the wrong foot with the mouthy Brit corporal, and her bad luck was holding. Bluebird held her own anger in check and lifted her slightly-too-prominent chin. "Colonel Hogan… Agent Bluebird of the Underground."

"Oh, great. That's just _great. _." He turned away in disgust. "It's a nightmare… that's what it is… any second now I'm gonna wake up screaming."

_Gee, thanks._ But she did her best to maintain a neutral expression. This wasn't the first time she'd been an unwelcome sight, and it wouldn't be the last. "I'm sorry if I'm a disappointment to you, sir."

"A disappointment? I wouldn't put it that way, Bluebird… no, you're a full-fledged _disaster_! This is a POW camp and there are three hundred _men _in it… are you under some delusion that you're just going to blend in? I asked for a commando and they sent me a carhop!"

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I have had some commando training…"

"Oh, do you knit fuses?" the Englishman demanded.

_Him, _she didn't have to take it from. "Who came up behind _who _out there?" she shot back. "Lucky for you I wasn't a German patrol!"

"Knock it off!" Hogan snapped. He looked back at her. "_You_… go _sit _somewhere or something while I try to figure out what to do about you."

The absolute worst thing she could do was to let her anger show. _She _knew she was a dedicated agent and a hard worker, maybe she hadn't been at it very long but there were plenty of operatives she'd worked with who could tell Hogan a thing or two about who she was and what she could do. The best thing she could do at the moment would be to follow his orders without question and let him think… for now.

She had just finished painting the entire barracks full of men with the same unflattering brush when she realized that someone on her right was holding a chipped ceramic cup out to her. "Would you like some coffee, _mademoiselle_?" a diminutive corporal in a red sweater inquired.

She recognized both the accent and the emblem on his uniform shirt that peeked out from the tear in his sweater right away. "_Merci._"

He brightened a little when she didn't come out swinging the way she had with his British pal, who was sulking nearby. "_Ah, vous parlez français_?"

"_Un tout petit peu."_

"_Très bien!"_ He indicated the bench at the table and she took a seat. "I'm Louis LeBeau. This is Andrew Carter."

The American sergeant in the flight jacket waved a quick hello. "Hi… ma'am."

"Hi."

"And this is Kinch… James Kinchloe."

The staff sergeant glanced toward Colonel Hogan briefly before replying… well, then, he might be a sergeant but she'd seen that look before, and he was in reality more of a lieutenant, whether or not they'd gotten around to promoting him yet. "Bluebird," he nodded politely if a bit coolly. "Apparently you've already met our Corporal Peter Newkirk."

Was that his name? Big deal. "Not formally."

She hadn't thought Newkirk would be able to keep his mouth shut for long, and she was right. "I risk my life out there in the middle of the night for what? To go bring in a Girl Scout."

"I'm sorry, Corporal, did I miss the part where you had to carry me or something?"

"In case you didn't notice, these woods happen to be crawlin' with Krauts."

"I _know_… which is why I think you ought to pay more attention to what's going on behind you."

That made Sergeant Kinchloe chuckle. "Hey, Newkirk, did she get the drop on you out there?"

"That explains the attitude," LeBeau nodded. "Don't pay any attention to him, Bluebird. He's always cranky when he doesn't get his nap before a mission."

Carter looked surprised. "_Did _she sneak up on you, Newkirk?"

No answer. She wondered how he planned to get himself out of that one. She sure wasn't going to let him get away with an outright lie. And as it turned out, she didn't have to… Kinch and LeBeau responded to his silence by looking at their watches and began a countdown.

"Five… four… three… two… one… _yes!_" they concluded, laughing, when he failed to say anything at all. She wanted to laugh too, but didn't dare… why push her luck when she'd finally found a couple of guys who seemed willing to tolerate her? Plus, she was distracted by the coffee. _Anything_ hot would have been welcome after her wet wait in the dark forest, but this actually tasted good to boot.

"This is _great_."

"It's real," LeBeau grinned proudly. "Sugar too."

"I forgot how much I liked it. I've only been able to get chicory and some white stuff that I don't think I want to know more about."

"You're right; you don't." He freshened everyone else's cups and handed one to Newkirk as well… whom she expected to swear off coffee any second just because she'd said _she _liked it… and then sat down at the table. "What outfit did you come from?"

Generally that was a question she didn't like to answer, but this was the famous Colonel Hogan's outfit, not a bunch of unknown quantities meeting behind a haystack. "I was with Danzig's group for a while, and before that with a unit in Rennes."

LeBeau looked impressed. "Who do _I _see about getting a transfer to Rennes?"

The colonel came back out of the smaller room off the barracks and gestured to Bluebird and to Kinch. "Let's get on the radio… I want to see if I can find out who's responsible for this and what they have to say for themselves."

As the aforementioned 'this', Bluebird set her cup down with resignation. "Well… it was nice almost knowing you." She was going back out that tree stump within the hour; she just knew it.

She got a "Bye, ma'am", a "Take care", and a "Good riddance."

**00o00**

"Say _again_, Goldilocks?" Hogan repeated into the static.

Bluebird looked in awe around the spacious radio room in the tunnel. Incredible. It had to be seen to be believed. And she _still _wasn't quite sure she believed it.

A British-accented male voice crackled back over the speaker in reply. "_Repeat_, please, Papa Bear… Did you say Agent _Bluebird_?"

"_Affirmative, _Goldilocks… Agent _Bluebird _received orders to report to us here at the Three Bears' House."

Were they kidding? These were grown men. She wondered if she'd ever get over finding this code-name patter amusing. But she kept a straight face… nothing about her situation was funny.

"I'm terribly sorry, Papa Bear, but there's been some sort of mistake."

"What _kind _of mistake?" Hogan pressed.

"You weren't supposed to be Agent Bluebird's assignment at _all_… no, it was Agent _Bluejay _who was supposed to receive the orders to report to the Three Bears' House."

"I think that explains a lot right there, Goldilocks," Hogan nodded. "Is Agent Bluejay by any chance a _man_?"

"Why, yes, of course… pleasant chap from British Canada. Do you know him?" the calm, almost casually chatty voice inquired.

"We've never met," Hogan replied curtly. "_Unfortunately._"

"Then I'm not sure how…" A long pause. "Oh dear me… Blue_bird _is… well, if I recall correctly, Bluebird is…"

"Bluebird is a _girl_, Goldilocks, who fits into our operation here about as well as a piano fits into a harmonica case. I must say I'm relieved to find out her assignment here _was _a mistake and not someone's idea of a prank, but it doesn't change the fact that she's _here _and we don't know what to _do _with her. Where is Bluejay now, and can we make an exchange?"

"That… could be difficult, Papa Bear."

Hogan clutched the microphone tightly enough to make Kinch wince. "How so?"

"Well… if Bluebird is at Stalag 13, that probably means that Bluejay received _her _assignment."

"Can't you get him _back _from the assignment?"

"Well… I imagine he's likely in Marseille by now. It's all very well and good for you to tell Bluebird she belongs on the Riviera, but it's going to be a hard knock for poor old Bluejay, I can tell you… not looking forward to that at _all."_

The voice was getting harder and harder to make out over the increasing static. "We're losing the signal, Colonel," Kinch warned.

"Request instructions on returning misdelivered package," Hogan said quickly.

"Do you read?"

The static reached a crescendo and Kinch shook his head. "Sorry, Colonel… we've lost them."

Hogan slammed the microphone down on the desk. "They hung up, didn't they? They think we're gonna fall for that? Kinch, keep trying to restore that connection until you get through. I don't care if it takes all night. We are not, repeat, _not_, going to cover for their foul-up. Bluebird goes back where she came from within twenty-four hours, _period, _if _I_ have to drop her on their doorstep _myself_."

**NOVEMBER 1943**

"How did it go?" LeBeau asked as Newkirk ascended the ladder from the tunnel.

"Piece'a cake," he assured them. "And how did you lot get along without me for a whole day and a night?"

"We managed," Hogan replied. "I think Schultz missed you, though… at roll call last night he counted off _elf, zwölf, donnervetter" _when he got to that empty place you should've been standing in."

"Poor ol' Schultzie." He eyed Hogan for a moment. "I suppose this'll mean the cooler for me again, sir?"

"You know the rules. 'There has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13'. Klink got a little upset when you didn't make it home for dinner last night; your room is ready for you as soon as you go back outside the wire and 'surrrender'."

"Hey, did that commemorative plaque Klink keeps threatening to order with Newkirk's name on it ever arrive?" Kinch kidded.

Hogan grinned. "Stalag 13's answer to the Lincoln Bedroom."

Well, it hadn't hurt to ask. Newkirk changed the subject. "What about a cup of coffee, then? Been a long, cold walk through those woods… and looks like I'm headed for another one."

Carter poured. "Here you go."

"Thanks, Andrew." He sat down at the table, warming his hands on the cup before taking a sip. "So… who wants to hear about how I flawlessly and single-handedly carried out my mission in the face of constant threat to life and limb?"

"I think we all do," Hogan began.

"Not necessarily," LeBeau muttered.

"But there's something _we _need to tell _you _first. We had a personnel change while you were gone."

"Oh, really?"

Hogan nodded. "Bluebird's been transferred. Bremerhaven to Cherbourg, then to her new assignment."

That did seem to take a little of the wind out of his sails. "But… she's on _our _team."

"Not anymore she isn't. You know how these things work. She's needed elsewhere." 'How these things work'… right; _that_ was a joke. They hadn't been able to _give _her away when they'd _wanted _to be rid of her. And now this.

"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," he said quietly. "When does she leave, then?"

"Yesterday."

"I know the army likes to put it that way, sir, but…"

"Newkirk, that's not a figure of speech. She left last night; they ordered her out right away to catch the sub at Bremerhaven."

That had to be a joke. They were pulling his leg. He tried to convince himself of that for a second or two, as he looked from one straight face to the next, faces that had just had to say goodbye to a good friend and a trusted colleague, someone they'd all risked their lives with, someone dependable and brave and resourceful, a vital part of their success over the past year and a half… someone they could never really hope to replace. Gone. Just like that. Bluebird was gone.

"She left this for you." LeBeau held out the folded paper she had entrusted to him. Newkirk just looked at it for a few seconds, as if he really didn't need to accept what had happened if he simply refused to accept the note. A bloody _note. _After a year and a half, a living breathing human being had disappeared with nothing but a note in her place. Wasn't this what kidnappings looked like? Was that note going to have his back the next time he went out to blow up a bridge? Could it help steal a tank? Risk its life in a cave-in? Laugh at his jokes? Feed Carter's pet mouse? What good was a _note _going to do him?

When he still didn't hold out his hand for it, LeBeau set it on the table. He himself didn't know what was in it. But he _did _know that Bluebird had a warm spot in her heart for the brash, prickly corporal and there was quite likely a thoughtful message in there that she really wanted him to have, not just a simple _adieu. _"She waited… " he said, unsure if it would help. "As long as she could… she hoped you might be back."

He might have been… if he hadn't decided to stop off at the _hofbrau_ on his way back to camp for a little self-appointed reward for a job well done. Elsa… or Elke… had seemed like a good idea at the time. And while the two of them had been having schnapps in her apartment, Bluebird… his colleague, his friend… had been getting shipped out, leaving nothing in her wake but one note and far too many memories. He felt like a right old sod.

Hogan hadn't expected Newkirk to be pleased about the news, but there was more going on here than he had anticipated. Surprising, in a way… the two of them had had no use for each other at all in the first couple of months, and either or both of them would have been thrilled to have her reassigned, just to be able to get away from each other. Newkirk was a tough read… just when you thought there wasn't much going on under the surface, he could prove you wrong. "Newkirk?"

"Sir…?"

"Everything all right?"

He put a little more weight behind his next reply. "Yes, sir."

"Nobody's happy about it, so join the club."

"Right, sir." He didn't deserve that note. He should have been here, and he'd let her down. But refusing it wouldn't change the fact that she was gone, and it would only make things worse if he tried to explain. He picked it up, glanced at the neat printing of his name on the front of it, and put it in his breast pocket without opening it. He knew how it went. Same old story.

Gone was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**MAY 1945**

A knock on the barracks door. "Come on in, Schultz," Hogan called. There was nobody else it could be. Schultz was one of the few people left in the entire camp these days, and the _only_ one with the insecurity to knock. A lot of things had changed in the past few days, but Schultz still tended to show up when he smelled LeBeau's cooking.

Schultz's sizable head appeared around the edge of the barracks door slowly, tentatively. "Excuse me, Colonel Hogan... but may I...?"

"You're always welcome here, Schultz," Hogan nodded.

"_Danke_, Colonel Hogan," the heavyset sergeant said with sincere gratitude as he came through the doorway.

"You want some _brioche_, Schultzie?" LeBeau asked.

"Thank you, Cockroach... but... I'm not very hungry."

"Sounds serious," Kinch quipped.

"Have a seat," Hogan offered.

"I..."

"You're worried about the Allies," Hogan nodded. "Schultz, really... you'll be all right. You can even _leave, _you know. Everyone else did yesterday."

"Thank you, but..." His round blue eyes glanced around the familiar barracks. "I feel safer here."

"Suit yourself,"

"Do you know... _when..._?"

"From what we hear, the Allied tanks will probably be here by the end of the week."

Schultz looked apprehensive but said nothing further on the subject. "And, Colonel Hogan... do you hear anything about..." His glance strayed to the empty top bunk to the right of the door, where the cuff from a pair of long underwear dangled over the side. Nobody had been sleeping up there. It was pointless to count the men anymore, but one that was supposed to be there _was_ missing, and everyone was keenly aware of the fact.

Now Hogan wasn't hungry either. "Not yet," he said evenly. "We've got some feelers out; something will come in soon."

"I'm so sorry about the Englander."

"He'll be back," Hogan said.

"But the Gestapo..."

"He'll be _back._"

Saying it didn't make it true. It didn't even make anybody at the table feel any better. Newkirk was gone. Shots had been fired in the woods that night. The Krauts were so disorganized there didn't seem to be any way of even finding out for sure if he was still alive. The only thing they knew for sure in the waning days of this war was that he'd been taken to Gestapo headquarters in Berlin. Okay, maybe not too many people came back from there... but Newkirk was different. Tough, and smart, and resourceful, and just cocky enough to take long odds and make them pay off.

"He'll be back," Hogan said a third time. Third time was the charm.

**00o00**

The gate was open.

Bluebird understood why, had expected it even… and yet, how strange to see it wide open, no guards on the perimeter or even in the towers. Was she too late? Was everyone gone? She didn't see a living soul at Stalag 13.

Well, she had to find out for sure. She entered the camp and made for Barracks 2. If there _was _anyone around, she knew where to look.

She could smell something cooking as she approached the building… something _wonderful_. She was in luck; not _everyone _had already left. She pushed open the door to the barracks and then stopped in her tracks.

The roomful of men were momentarily taken aback as well… but only momentarily. "Hey, look who's here!" Carter was the first to speak. "It's Bluebird!"

She didn't know who to hug first… then she recalled something about rank having its privileges. "Well, well, _well…_" Hogan said with an admiring glance.

"I'm so glad you're still here."

"So are _we, now_… but it was getting kinda dull just hanging around waiting for the Allies to show up and liberate us already."

LeBeau was next to embrace her, with a kiss on each cheek. "_Bienvenue", _he said. "We're so glad to see you're all right."

"I'm fine," she assured them. "Is everyone else gone?"

"We were ordered to stay until the Allies arrive," Kinch explained. "But with LeBeau's cooking and nothing but good news on the radio, so far it hasn't been too tough on morale."

"You'll have some _coq au vin," _LeBeau said in a way that made it not optional. "Sit down. That is, if you don't mind…"

What, sitting down at the same table with Colonel Klink? The uniform gave her the same unpleasant jolt to her nervous system as always, but this was obviously a man defeated who posed no threat… not even as feeble a threat as Klink _ever _had, on his _best _day. She hugged Kinch and Carter, then took the seat LeBeau had indicated. "Colonel," she acknowledged him cordially.

Klink peered at her halfheartedly through his ever-present monocle. "I _know _you… from somewhere…"

"It's a long story", Hogan assured him. "Let's not get into it now; we'll meet for a schnapps after the liberation."

"Long, long, _long _after…" Klink sighed. "Oh, Hogan… what do you think they'll do to me…?"

"I dunno… maybe Eisenhower could use someone to carry his overnight bag."

"Not funny, Hogan."

Schultz, standing next to the stove making short work of a plate of _coq au vin_, gave her a little wave but wasn't willing to divert much more of his attention from his lunch. "Colonel Hogan has been very kind; he said that if we stay here with him, he will talk to the Allies when they arrive and tell them…"

"Tell them _what_?" Klink cut him off in a voice that was little more than a whine. "That we held these men prisoner? Denied them electric lights, white bread? Sent them to the cooler? Threatened to shoot them? I may just take my chances on the road to Hammelburg."

Schultz looked worried. "Colonel Hogan… were we _that _bad…?"

LeBeau gave his fork hand a friendly pat. "No, Schultzie," he smiled. "Remember… we could have left anytime, but we didn't."

"I am _so_ glad you didn't, Cockroach… you make such a _marvelous_ strudel…"

"Strudel…" Klink grumbled. "We just lost the Second World War, and all this _dummkopf _thinks about is his stomach."

"You gotta admit, Colonel, that's a pretty significant subject", Hogan teased.

Next thing Bluebird knew, there was a plate in front of her and the chef was awaiting her opinion. "I didn't have a shallot."

She had a taste. "_Oh… vraiment magnifique! Mes compliments au chef!"_

He beamed at her. "Hey, your French is getting very good."

"I've been on Hitler's language immersion program… two years in France with the Resistance."

"Better than the Berlitz system, where you just get the records," Kinch grinned.

Bluebird took a moment to really look around. Everything was just as it had been two years before; her assignment there felt like a lifetime ago, but no one would ever be able to tell it by the looks of the place, which had barely changed at all. Even the girlie pictures were still the same. "Is the tunnel still operational?" she asked.

"We moved guys out less than seventy-two hours ago," Kinch said proudly. "Colonel Hogan thinks it'll make a great war museum."

There was still one thing that belonged here that she wasn't seeing. "Where's Newkirk?"

Carter's smile faded. And LeBeau had gone silent and somber. She looked from one to the other. Then she looked to the person she had _always _looked to when she had needed an answer… to Colonel Hogan. "Something happened to Newkirk…?"

Hogan dropped his shoulders, looking deflated. That look had always filled her with dread. "He was working outside the wire and he got picked up… Gestapo."

"_When_? Where did they take him?"

A long pause… so things were even worse. "Berlin. As far as we know, he's alive," he added quietly, sounding unconvinced.

Alive with the Gestapo in Berlin? Not for long! "Why are we just _sitting _here?" She got to her feet. "We need to…"

What we need to do is stay here, _as ordered, _until the Allies liberate this camp and officially relieve us of duty," he interrupted her in that no-arguments way she remembered not liking… about the only thing she had ever disliked about him. "We've sent urgent messages to all of our Underground contacts in and around Berlin, and hopefully one of them will be able to spring Newkirk."

"With all due respect, sir, 'hopefully' isn't good enough!" She felt Carter's hand on her arm, and she knew what he was trying to do but he didn't have a chance at making her feel any better.

"I realize you just got here, Bluebird, but it's been three days and the rest of us have already gone through what you're going through now and realized that we have no choice!"

Just because he felt bound to obey orders didn't mean he had to like them… she knew very well that no part of Colonel Robert Hogan felt the least bit apathetic about the fact that one of his command was in mortal danger, and his frustration preyed on his usual level-headedness. She had never seen him so torn. But just because _he _was between a rock and a hard place didn't mean they _all _were. "Sir, those orders don't apply to me… _I'll_ go to Berlin."

"You can't!" LeBeau protested. "You'd never make it through!"

"I made it _here._" She pulled off her light jacket. "I need a uniform… Gestapo… high but not _too _high; make sure nobody's ever heard of me."

"Bluebird…" Hogan began quietly.

"Papers… transportation… I saw Klink's staff car outside…"

"Take it…" Klink groaned. "What do I care? The guards ran off with everything that wasn't nailed down…" He clutched his riding crop in a shaking fist. "And _some _things that _were."_

"Bluebird…"

"_Both_sides will be taking pot shots at you," Kinch protested.

She checked her own sidearm. "Okay, then, we're evenly matched."

"Bluebird!"

They all fell silent and all eyes turned to Hogan… even Schultz's. "Sir…" she began.

"I can't order you not to go… I would if I could. Newkirk's a big boy and he knows how to take care of himself."

"I can take care of myself too, sir."

"I know that… you're a good agent; I know your work and I respect it_._ I don't want to be responsible for losing another operative."

"Colonel, what happened to Newkirk wasn't your fault," Kinch began.

"I'm responsible for every man… I mean, _all personnel_… under my command. What happened to Newkirk falls on me."

"I make my own decisions…" Bluebird began.

"_In _conjunction with my command here… I may not have any direct control over you, but I _do _have the responsibility to ensure that your actions don't compromise the safety of this outfit."

"What are you saying, sir?"

"I'm saying…" He folded his arms and sighed. She wasn't here under orders. She'd do as she pleased anyway. If they refused to help her and something happened to her, that would be on his head as well. And _yes, _he wanted his corporal back… after all these years, he had no intention of breaking up the set. "LeBeau, just be careful on the ladder when you go down to get her that Gestapo uniform."

LeBeau brightened. "_Oui, Colonel!_" He sprinted towards the tunnel entrance without even bothering to remove his chef's hat.

Bluebird managed a faint smile of her own. "You won't regret this, Colonel."

"Yeah, well, I'd just better _not_." He obviously wasn't a hundred percent convinced he was doing the right thing. "I don't think you've got any idea what kind of danger you're walking into."

"The Germans don't scare me, sir."

"I'm talking about _Newkirk_… he hasn't seen a woman in a while." He lifted an eyebrow. "And you're more of a woman than he remembers you as."

Soon a hard-eyed Gestapo major in a tightly-wound blonde coiffe was staring back at her through thick black-framed glasses, in the mirror above the sink. Meticulously organized as ever, they had been able to effect her transformation in less than a half-hour. The ink wasn't even dry on her papers, but Carter was blowing on them to hasten the process. "I guess you'll need to reheat the _coq au vin_," she told LeBeau as he finished pinning on her wig.

"You cannot reheat _coq au vin_!" Then he put it into perspective. "But we do it anyway… one plate for you and one for Newkirk." Maybe he'd even see if he could prepare something else… a steak and kidney pie, perhaps… that would be more of a fitting 'welcome home' for their British friend. Those English, they ate things that only alley cats in France would be willing to consume, and only the scrawniest and most desperate of alley cats at that. Still… Louis acknowledged that he'd cheerfully eat a whole plate of it himself, if only Newkirk could be there to share it.

Klink's car sat idle in the motor pool area. It would have made a tempting prize for the fleeing guards, but Hogan had foreseen that it might come in useful and had had Kinch pop the distributor cap and a couple of other vital components which they had then hidden in the tunnel. "I think this is how my mechanic at home makes all his dough," Kinch commented as he finished tightening the last clamp. "Break it, then fix it… that's double the labor charge, and add in the cost of new parts on top of it. I drive a '37 Packard; that guy's got this year's Cadillac in every color." He dropped the hood. "Okay, that does it."

LeBeau held the driver's door open for Bluebird. "Be careful."

"I will," she nodded.

"We'll see you back here in…" Hogan checked his watch. "About nine hours if all goes according to plan."

"_Both _of you," Carter stressed. He looked like he wanted to say something else but couldn't decide what it should be.

Newkirk was his best friend… she sure hadn't forgotten that. "_Both _of us," she told him with absolute certainty.

She started the engine and LeBeau closed the door. She had never liked driving, and it was going to be a long trip… she was too short to be able to see well over the hood of the big car, and her uniform jacket wasn't a comfortable fit either. LeBeau had started to apologize for that earlier, then had stopped himself.

Of course it didn't fit. The Gestapo had Newkirk.

A few minutes, a few pins, a little chalk, a flash of a tape measure, and Newkirk could make _anything _fit. Escaping defectors had taken the time to compliment him on their way out the emergency tunnel. He was the best.

How could she ever forget the first time he'd tried to fit something on _her_?

**APRIL 1942**

It was hard to tell who was enjoying this less, Newkirk or Bluebird. "Colonel Hogan…" Newkirk began with thinly-disguised impatience, scratching the back of his neck, "I'm not sure what you think I can accomplish here. A gentleman's tailor is just that… and _this _is not a gentleman." He narrowed his eyes at the equally-dissatisfied Bluebird, who stood on the chair in Hogan's office with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"Do your best," Hogan instructed. As orders went, it wasn't much... he himself wasn't sure how much could be done about Bluebird's 'nonconformity'. She would never be able to mingle with the rest of the population, since not even Schultz would be able to "see nothing" when it came to having a girl in the barracks, but it would be nice if she at least had a change of clothes while she was stuck here.

For Bluebird's money it looked like Newkirk had never held a tape measure in his life, and she was uncomfortably aware that her being a girl _had_ gotten in the way… okay, she admitted grudgingly, he was right about _that _much. She took the tape from his hands and held it up where he needed to measure but wasn't able to bring himself to approach, and he stepped behind her to hold the ends together and get the number. "Twenty-eight," he read off to Carter, who wrote it down. "And I think the last time I got that figure was measurin' Schultzie's neck." He lowered the tape to her waistline. "Twenty-four and a half."

"Twenty-four and a half," Carter repeated.

Another few inches down to her hips. "Twenty-five," Newkirk said, shaking his head.

"And your _point _is?" she challenged.

"Just that if we only had an extra-large sock, we could pull it up to your neck and that'd be it all said and done."

She snatched the tape out of his hand, flung it to the floor, jumped down off the chair and stalked out of the office. "I'll wear what I came here with!" she yelled over her shoulder on the way out.

"_That_ doesn't fit _either_!" he shouted after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**MAY 1945**

Bluebird adjusted her stiff, straight black skirt and knocked on Major Hochstetter's office door. There was no answer. She knocked again, more forcefully. Then came the familiar roar. "_Come!_"

The major was very busy… tearing armloads of papers from his desk drawers and flinging them onto the roaring fire in the hearth. It looked like a scene from _Dante's Inferno_. "Major Hochstetter," Bluebird began in her best arrogant-Nazi tone, "I am Major Blauervogel." She reached into her pocket with hardly a superfluous motion and removed her expertly-forged papers, unfolding them with one hand only… the other never strayed far from her sidearm. She remembered one thing very clearly from her Stalag 13 days: Wolfgang Hochstetter was the worst kind of bad news, and she still had scars to prove it.

"_What?" _he demanded, barely taking the time to look at her. "What do you want? Don't you understand that the Allies will be here within the hour? They will not leave one stone in the Reichstag standing!"

Then why was he bothering to burn those papers? They must be incriminating indeed. Records of prisoners tortured, maimed, killed… was the name Peter Newkirk on any of those flaming sheets of paper being reduced to ashes? She resisted the urge to pull her gun and simply demand that he release Newkirk; if she did that she'd be dead before she got to the door. She took a step closer to the overpowering heat of the fireplace. "I require your assistance, Major, in the transfer of a prisoner you are holding."

"I care nothing about what you _require, _Major," he growled between clenched teeth, one side of his lip curling upward in disdain.

Her best defense against his tirade was to remain coolly, icily calm. It wasn't easy, especially when she was beginning to feel faint from the oppressive heat. "My orders come directly from Herr Himmler." That they had… in a way. Kinch's Himmler signature was good enough to fool the Kraut's own mother on a Christmas card. And wouldn't _that _surprise the so-called Master Race?

"_Herr Himmler _is more than likely on his way to a gallows somewhere on the Russian side of town at this moment! His orders mean nothing and your presenting them means even _less_!"

She continued as if he had said nothing more intimidating than 'nice day, isn't it?' "I will take custody of the Gestapo prisoner, RAF Corporal Peter Newkirk, at your earliest convenience, Major. My car is outside." That means _now, _Wolfgang, she thought, trying to _will _him into cooperation. "Then I will trouble you no further."

"I cannot _be _troubled any further! I am at the very _limits _of trouble, _Major_!" he screamed, his face rapidly becoming the same dark red as the Nazi armband that encircled his sleeve.

"Then I will be most gratified to relieve you of one of your responsibilities."

Apparently he got the idea she wasn't going anywhere, or maybe he'd simply decided he really didn't want any witnesses to what he was doing… either way, he stalked over to the sideboard, grabbed a keyring as big around as a dessert plate and flung it at her feet. "Go! _Now_! Take all the prisoners you want, but leave me in peace!"

"_Danke, Herr Major_." She bent to pick up the keys slowly and gracefully, resisting the compulsion to snatch them and run. "_Guten Abend._"

"_Bah!_"

As soon as she closed the door behind her, she _did _run. She had been there before and she knew exactly where she was going; she only prayed that she wasn't too late. Her boots made a terrible racket on the hard floor, but it hardly mattered. Obviously there was almost nobody else left in the building, and anybody who _was _would either be cooperative with her orders and her keys, or dispatched with one of her bullets. She wasn't leaving without Newkirk.

And if anything had happened to him, Hochstetter would pay dearly for it on the way out.

**00o00**

The keys gained her entry to the series of outer doors leading to the subterranean prison block. It hadn't changed since she'd been in it herself, more than two years ago. Cold, damp, and dark, the only light came from a bare bulb in the single ceiling fixture, whose brightness ebbed and then intensified every few seconds, as if the power supply was compromised. Moisture slicked the stone floor; she silently cursed her smooth-soled boots and made an extra effort to keep her balance. The young sergeant on duty, clad only in black, was barely visible in the gloom.

"_Abend,_" she said coolly.

He leapt to his feet at the sight of her rank insignia… good; this one might be easy to push around. "_Guten Abend, Major._"

She presented her forged orders, and he held them up to his face, nearly touching his nose to the paper, to try and make out the printing in the dim light. "You will transfer to me the RAF prisoner Newkirk." Not a question, but a simple demand. The lower orders were more comfortable that way.

"But…" Uh oh… a questioner. "This prisoner is maximum security, Major Blauervogel. You will not be able to handle him alone; he is very dangerous."

Apparently Newkirk had made an impression on them in just a couple of days, which was encouraging. She wondered if he'd shown them any of his sleight-of-hand yet; he might even have his own keyring by now. Could be the only thing he'd need from her would be a ride back to camp.

"I have Major Hochstetter's authorization… or perhaps that is not good enough?"

It _was _dark, but she still thought she saw the sergeant pale. "Not at all, Major, but…"

"He is extremely busy at the moment, but perhaps you should call him and ask him to interrupt his duties to come down and repeat his orders for you personally." She slid the phone on the desk closer to the sergeant, and he backed up a step as if it were an advancing snake.

"N... _no_, Major…" he stammered slightly. "That will not be necessary, Major."

"Good." She glanced at her watch… she couldn't really see it. "Now if you will bring the prisoner to me, Sergeant, I have a schedule to keep. Herr Himmler does not like to be kept waiting."

"H… h… h…" She wasn't sure if he was stuck on "Herr" or "Himmler", but the mere mention of that name seemed to convince him that he'd better do as she'd asked, and the quicker the better. The sergeant grabbed his keys and fled down the even-darker corridor of the main cell block. From somewhere down there she heard a heavy door open, the sergeant's voice barked an order she couldn't quite make out, the words running over themselves with an endless echo, and then there was one of those seemingly interminable waits until she finally saw some movement at the near end of the corridor.

Newkirk appeared from the shadows, in wrist shackles, shoved along by the business end of the sergeant's rifle. He held his right arm at an awkward angle next to his body, his head was down, and he was limping slightly. His uniform was torn at the right shoulder and both knees. They'd had enough of a chance to get at him in the last seventy-two hours, then… she'd been hopeful that the chaos surrounding the impending Allied arrival might have kept them too busy to pay much attention to him, but at least he was alive and on his feet. She kept her authoritative stance and her composure… one of the hardest things she had ever done… while the guard finished prodding him to the desk.

"_Halt_!"

"Leave off!" Newkirk snapped over his shoulder… well, the old spirit was still there, a good sign. But when he lifted his head to look at her, she nearly did forget herself… his left eye was bruised and swelling, and a cut at the corner of his mouth showed fresh blood. He lifted his hands to shield his eyes from the glare of the bare bulb… if _that _pathetic fixture was too much for him, he had to have come out of total darkness… and stared at Bluebird with a mixture of pride and defiance… and contempt. That hurt… she knew he didn't recognize her, and she was _glad _that he didn't because it was already hard enough for her not to show recognition on her own part. But being on the receiving end of the hard look of hate in those gray eyes that she remembered such warmth emanating from froze something in her soul.

"Newkirk…" he said, his voice rough and hoarse. "Peter… corporal… serial number two-two-four-one-aught-three-four…" He coughed, and winced. "And that's all you'll get outta me, so don't waste your flippin' time tryin'."

She was a Gestapo officer. She had no feelings. Nothing shocked her. Nothing made her cry, or smile, or anything. She was a black-clad robot and she was hollow inside, just like the rest of them. _Both _their lives depended on those lies now, so she made certain her mouth was in the same hard line when she spoke.

"We shall see. Sergeant, I require a key to those handcuffs."

"Major, you wouldn't think of…"

"Do you think I am a _fool_, Sergeant?"

"N…n…"

"Do you think I attained this rank by being foolhardy?" She jacked it up a notch; it was easy to show anger since she was shaking with fury anyway.

"N… _no_, Major Blauervogel…"

"How do you suggest Herr Himmler is to remove these handcuffs during his interrogation? Do you suggest that he remove the prisoner's arms?" _Sorry, Newkirk_… but she'd apologize later. The concept didn't seem to faze him anyway; he was still looking at her like she was Hitler's uglier brother.

The sergeant would probably have given her every key he possessed, but the look she gave him strongly implied that she wanted just that _one. _She pocketed it. "Sergeant, I believe Major Hochstetter requires your assistance in his office."

"But the major has not…"

"I believe he wishes you to _anticipate _his needs." She didn't mind if the sergeant didn't believe her… she didn't need him with Hochstetter; she just needed him to go someplace _else. _She drew her sidearm to illustrate what she wanted him to think her thought processes were. "This prisoner is secure in my custody."

"Newkirk…" the stubborn Brit began again. "Peter… corporal…"

"_Silence_!" Borrowed from Hochstetter, the tone was equally effective coming out of her own mouth. "I will tolerate none of your insolence!" She raised her pistol in his direction. "You may go, Sergeant."

He was only too glad to get out of there… between the crazy lady Gestapo major and the rock-stubborn POW he had a pretty good idea what was likely to happen next, and he didn't want to be around if Herr Himmler's prisoner wasn't going to survive the transfer.

Bluebird waited until she could no longer hear his retreating bootsteps in the distance before she lowered her gun, pulling in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

"Well?" Newkirk challenged. "Are you really takin' me to Himmler or are we gonna finish it right here and now? Either's fine by me." The blood from his lip reached his chin. "Newkirk, Peter..."

"_Peter_…"

_That_ definitely got his full attention, even more than having a pistol drawn on him had. No one had called him by his Christian name in years... well, LeBeau, _once_... but ever since the army, it was rare. "_What_ did you say...?"

She had to make sure he knew who she was before she approached him; if he was convinced she was the enemy she knew he was still capable of killing her even in his weakened condition. She laid her gun down on the desk, took off the heavy horn-rimmed glasses, and pulled a couple of dark curls out from under her Aryan wig. "It's _me_…" Would he even _remember_, after all this time?

He stared, unable to believe his eyes, from her face all the way down to her feet and then back up again. By the time his eyes met hers again, the hate was gone and had been replaced by hope. "Cor, blimey…" he breathed. "_Bluebird…?_"

She was done with talking for a minute; instead she closed the space between them and put her arms around him gently. He couldn't do likewise since his wrists were still chained, but she got the general idea that he was pleased to see her when he rested his forehead on her shoulder and she felt all the fight melt out of him. "Are you okay…?" she managed to force out of her tight throat.

"You smell better'n any Kraut I've ever collapsed on…"

"Can you walk?"

"You couldn't lose me now, darlin'."

She hoped not. And they _did_ have to hurry… they had a long ways to go before they were home free. She took a step back so she could fish the handcuff key out of her pocket. "I'll loosen these up so it looks like you're still cuffed, but you can slide them off if…" His wrists showed the abrasions where he'd been struggling to get free… there was more blood.

"I'm a bit out of practice, it would seem," he admitted. But he was less interested in the state of his wrists than he was in who was uncuffing him; he smiled as he watched her face while she worked. "Look at _you… _my oh _my_…"

"I look awful."

"Not from where _I'm _standin'." He flexed his wrists gingerly as soon as the cuffs were loosened. "I know this is a dream… but I hope it's a long one… and I'll kill whoever wakes me up."

"Klink's staff car's outside… that's as far as we have to get. It's a long story, but we're running out of war. All the guards and the prisoners are gone except for the colonel and the rest of the unit… the Allies are on their way… Colonel Hogan thinks they could liberate the camp by _tomorrow._"

"You're jokin'…"

"I want to be there to see that… how about you?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world… let's get out of 'ere." He gestured to the door leading out of the cell block. "After _you_, Major Blauervogel." He couldn't decide whether to laugh, or kick himself for not picking up on it when he'd heard it the first time… the cheeky little thing; that was German for "blue bird"!

They double-timed it out of the cell block and up the long flight of narrow stone steps to the main level. The corridors were nearly deserted. Key word: 'nearly'. When they rounded a corner, they were surprised by a Gestapo captain who immediately reached for his sidearm. "_Was machen Sie_?" he demanded of Bluebird. "Let me see your papers!"

"_She's_ not _Gestapo_," Newkirk spoke to him as if he might be an idiot for thinking so. "Lookit them legs on her!"

The captain did, for a second, and a second was all Newkirk needed to pull the chain between his manacles neatly over the captain's head and tighten it around his throat. Bluebird stepped in and knocked him cold with the butt of her pistol, and he slumped to the floor. "What_ about _my legs?" she asked.

Newkirk shrugged as he stepped over the fallen captain. "Knew he'd look, is all."

Like Stalag 13, it appeared that nearly everyone had seen the handwriting on the wall and had decided to make their own individual bids for escape. Without being challenged again, they finally emerged into the rear courtyard where Bluebird had left Klink's car, and she opened the back door.

"Lie down," she instructed. "I'm going to try and run the gate; I don't see anyone around but in case we get stopped…"

He held out his hand and she gave him her sidearm. "They'll wish they hadn't," he assured her.

There were two blankets in the back and she made sure he was fully covered up and out of sight, then took her place behind the wheel and started the car. This was too easy… something _had _to go wrong. "Cross your fingers."

"Righto."

She didn't really begin to breathe normally again until they were a good five miles away. It had been another night of shelling, and there were fires; she had to make their way around those, as well as way too many blocked avenues. But the few people she saw out on the streets had their own agenda and it didn't involve interfering with a female Gestapo major driving a Luftwaffe staff car. She figured she probably looked as ragtag and at odds as the rest of them did, but she hoped the uniform would be enough to warn off anyone who might find the car appealing, and she drove as fast as she dared until they reached the city limits.

"I think we made it…" she dared say at last. No answer from the back. "Newkirk?" Still nothing. So this was the trouble she'd feared… she pulled over to the side of the road and nearly vaulted over the seat back. "Newkirk!"

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when she realized he was fine… just fast asleep under the blankets. Knowing the Gestapo, they probably hadn't allowed him any sleep since they'd gotten their hands on him, trying to wear him down. _Animals_… well, their time had come, and they wouldn't be doing that to anybody else from here on out. She gently removed the pistol from his pocket and then unfastened and took off the handcuffs. He didn't feel a thing. He _was _all right, she promised herself… even snoring a little bit.

"Okay…" she whispered, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders. "Next stop, Stalag 13."

**APRIL 1942**

"Shucks."

"_Carter_", Newkirk warned, not even bothering to look up from the cards in his hand. "Watch your language… there's a lady present."

Bluebird heard him. She couldn't help it, and he knew it… but she kept reading. Seven to ten days, London had said. Seven to ten days before she could get out of this crazy place. And away from _him._

"I dropped another stitch." Carter ripped a few rows back and started to put the loops of thick yarn back on the knitting needles. It might have been easier if he hadn't had gloves on. Sometimes Carter insisted on doing things the hard way.

"What are you making?" she asked.

"A _mess_," Newkirk answered.

"Socks," Carter corrected. "At least that was the idea… you don't happen to know how to knit, do you ma'am?"

Oh boy… that was a problem. She _did_… but if she admitted it, she risked being designated the official knitter in this outfit until her reassignment came through. Carter would keep getting the sabotage assignments, and she'd be making endless pairs of mittens. But he looked so genuinely disappointed in his progress that she realized she couldn't _not _help him out. "Yeah," she nodded, putting her book down and going over to sit next to him on the bunk. "Where are you having trouble?"

"Gee, thanks… it's this part right here, after the part that goes over your ankle."

Across the table, Newkirk studied LeBeau's face to see whether his hunch had been right. It had. LeBeau was trying to fill an inside straight… well, good luck to him. "I dunno why she's still up anyway... it's past ten o'clock on a school night."

"I see what the problem is," Bluebird told Carter, taking what he'd done so far into her own hands. "This is the tricky part… but once you get past the _heel_, you'll be good to go."

The double-entendre was lost on Carter, Newkirk, French-speaking LeBeau… but not on Hogan and Kinchloe, who had been quietly monitoring the situation from Hogan's office doorway. "Not bad," Kinch remarked sotto voce. "I think just about any other girl would have clocked him by now."

"She's got control," Hogan nodded. "Plenty more than _he _has. I gotta admit, I thought he'd be even happier about having a woman in easy reach than LeBeau. Those two really got off on the wrong foot. It's like World War Two-and-a-Half in here… only with the P-38s and Spitfires shooting at each _other _instead of at the Messerschmitts."

"I get the feeling she's a little green for his taste."

"Well, if we leave her on the windowsill for a while, she'll ripen." He gestured toward Carter. "And that's another thing… she didn't like the knitting question at first, didn't really want to admit she knew how. But Carter needed help and she stepped up. I like that."

"Think she'll pan out, Colonel?"

He shook his head. "I dunno… too early to say. But I haven't ruled it out yet."

"Well, _that'd_ be another first for Stalag 13."

"Kinch, we're never gonna win this war if we don't keep one step ahead of the enemy."

"What does that have to do with keeping Bluebird on board?"

"I'm working on it."


	4. Chapter 4

**MAY 1945**

She hated to do it, but she had no choice. "Newkirk…" Bluebird said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Newkirk… wake up…" He groaned quietly and turned his head. "Something's wrong with the car…"

"Huh…?" Finally his eyes opened… well, one of them did; the left was pretty much out of commission. "Where are we…?" he asked, squinting at the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Southeast of Düsseldorf… the car just stalled out and I can't get it started again."

"Bloody German engineering…" He started to sit up, but made the serious mistake of leaning on his right elbow to do so. "_Oh_…!"

She moved quickly to steady him… no question about it, he wasn't kidding. "Careful…"

"Too late for that, darlin'." With his customary gritty determination, he pushed the blanket back. "Ran into a truncheon with those ribs… clumsy of me…"

She should have shot that Kraut sergeant when she'd had the chance, she told herself… and Hochstetter for extra credit. She took his left hand and helped him out of the back seat and to his feet. He took his time standing up straight; he had to really be hurting not to sprint right over to the open hood.

The night was brightly-lit with a full and brilliant moon, but unfortunately it was shining on the raised hood and not on the engine. It didn't take long for him to realize it was a waste of time. "I can't see anything," he told her, "and I can't be sure of fixin' it even if I _could _see. We'd best clear off from the car." He looked at the surrounding terrain to evaluate their options. "Looks like a barn or somethin' up that hill a ways… let's see if we can lay low in there 'til mornin'."

It wasn't an easy climb for him with his painful ribs, or her with her high boots, but they managed to help one another up the steep grade, each with a blanket from the back seat in hand. It was a chilly night; full moons were like that during that time of year. If they could find a safe place to lie down and rest for a few hours, they could re-evaluate their position at first light.

They used appropriate caution, entering the barn carefully and quietly with her pistol at the ready, but it was deserted. Enough light shone in from the hayloft window that they could actually see pretty well. The wide floorboards were heaped with clean, dry straw in one corner, which was where they headed.

"You ought to pop me one rather than treat me like glass," he told her as she helped him sit down. "Fallin' asleep on you like that… what if you'd needed backup?"

_Broken _glass was what she was afraid he most closely resembled. "I bet I could have yelled loud enough to wake you up."

He chuckled, then winced and held his right side. "Never mind," he shook his head. "Worth it."

"I saw a pump outside; I'll go see if I can draw some water."

He handed her the pistol. "Take care," he warned. "We could use a darker night if you ask me; I don't like this moon."

The pump was ancient and difficult to operate, but there was a clean bucket and a ladle beside it; after some effort she filled the bucket three-quarters full and proudly hauled her prize the hundred feet or so back to the barn.

There she found Newkirk stubbornly back on his feet… and somehow that didn't surprise her. What he had found on his tour of the barn, however, did. "Good news," he announced, holding up a closed sack with a flap on it. "It may be a bargain hotel, but at least their restaurant hasn't closed for the night."

"You found _food?_" she asked admiringly… it hadn't even occurred to her to look.

"Your basic bread and cheese, but fresh as a daisy… probably the farmer's breakfast."

"First come first served."

"Exactly what I was thinkin'." He had already spread one of the blankets out for a picnic, and she added the water to the set-up. "In addition to sleep, I'd have to say food and water are what I've missed most over the past couple of days."

That horrible Gestapo hole he'd been trapped in… but if she started thinking about it she was just going to get upset all over again. While he had a long drink from the ladle, she dunked her pocket handkerchief into the bucket of ice-cold water and wrung it out. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "Put that on your eye."

"Worth a try… cheers, darlin'."

While he gingerly held the cold cloth to his bruised eye, she took a moment to pull off the tight blonde wig LeBeau had so carefully pinned in place, tossed it aside and fluffed her own hair back into shape with her fingers. It felt good to be out from under that thing; it was too tight and starting to give her a headache.

Newkirk looked on, silently cursing the fact that he didn't have two good eyes to appreciate the sight. Their little Bluebird had certainly changed a lot in the past year and a half. He'd already had a chance to review the various improvements in the areas set off by the form-fitting black jacket that hugged her waist and hips. Where there had once been a boyish figure with fewer curves than the average motorway, there was now a more feminine silhouette with a touch of sleek, soft roundness in all the right places.

Now _this… _when she'd pulled off the wig he'd been momentarily surprised to see more shining brown hair than the well-remembered pixie cut, and when she bent forward to fluff out the chin-length curls he almost forgot to breathe. When she tossed her head back again, he felt his jaw drop a little in sheer wonderment. The horrors he'd been forced to endure at the hands of the Gestapo were more than being made up for now. Closing his eyes tonight was going to require the equivalent of an Act of Parliament, in spite of how exhausted he was.

For her part, she had absolutely no idea that what she was doing interested him in the slightest. "That's better."

"That's _great…"_ he couldn't help commenting.

"What?"

"Oh…" He caught himself… barely. "What I mean is…" He smiled at her and shook his head in disbelief… because it was true, he _still _could hardly believe it. "Agent Bluebird, may I ask you… what in the name of Hitler's mustache are you _doin_' here?"

"_Somebody's _gotta keep an eye on you guys," she replied gamely. "Look what happened to _you." _

"Where did you _come _from? Where've you _been?_"

"Paris."

"_Oh_… finally got to Paris, did you? So how'd you end up back here, then?"

"I'll tell you later… you must be starving."

"A bit peckish, yes."

"I hate to tell you this, but LeBeau's keeping two plates of _coq au vin _warm for us back at camp."

"Just as well we didn't make it home for dinner, then… I still get heartburn listenin' to Maurice Chevalier. Whatever LeBeau puts in those sauces, they should've been droppin' on Berlin all this time… would've been a much shorter war." He gestured toward the blanket. "Table for two, maddamwaselle_? _I hope it's not too near the door."

"_Pas du tout, ça me convient très bien, monsieur."_

_"_And a 'tray bean' to you too, I'm sure."

"You haven't changed a bit," she laughed, taking the seat he indicated.

Well, Newkirk mused… _one _of them had.

**00o00**

Carter checked his watch. "It's eleven o'clock."

"I know," LeBeau nodded.

"They should be back by now, shouldn't they?"

"I know that too…" he said, topping off Kinch's coffee.

"Think she ran into trouble?"

"That I _don't _know."

Hogan exited his office. "It's eleven o'clock… where _are _they?"

"We covered that already, Colonel," Kinch advised him. "We don't know."

"I should have gone with her."

"And face a court martial?"

Hogan had seriously considered it. Before Bluebird had shown up, he'd been _that_ close to disregarding the order to stay put. He'd put up with a lot of insanity, a lot of outrageous orders from headquarters over the years, but the day they'd as much as told him that at this point in the war Newkirk wasn't worth the steel in his dogtags had nearly been the day he had disobeyed a direct order and headed for Berlin.

_Could _Bluebird pull this off alone? He didn't want to sell her short, but this was a tall order. She'd had her share of successes in the past, and some of them had carried long odds, just like this mission did. But failure was always a possibility.

**MAY 1942**

This was a test. Whether it was of her navigational skills or her patience, Bluebird wasn't sure.

"All I'm sayin' is that it's a lot of walking," Carter said for what had to be the tenth time since they'd blown the railroad bridge and fled the area on foot. The five men were in German uniforms; Bluebird was fairly swimming in an oversized black turtleneck sweater and pants that were belted with knotted rope. It had been a long night, and it wasn't over yet.

"Sorry, Carter, but the A-Line hasn't finished putting in the subway between here and the camp," Hogan told him.

"Write your congressman," was Kinch's suggestion.

"It's not that I don't _like_ the woods."

Regents Park was Newkirk's idea of roughing it, and even _that _wasn't exactly to his liking. Given the choice, he preferred paving stones under his feet. "We're ever so glad you approve."

"Hey, did I ever tell you I was a Boy Scout troop leader back home?"

"I think you _did_ mention it once... I was pretendin' to be asleep at the time. Looks like me luck's run out."

"We go on overnight hikes and everything. My kid brother's in my troop."

"_Oh, là là_..." LeBeau murmured. "_Two _Carters."

"Tell me, Carter," Hogan said, "do you generally find that the number of scouts you go into the woods with is the same as the number you come _out _with?"

"I think I respectfully resent that implication... sir."

"Just asking."

"My troop even earned merit badges for the last overnight we went on before I got drafted."

Kinch, who also felt a certain nostalgic fondness for the pavement in his hometown of Detroit, reached ahead of him and pulled a handful of leaves from the collar of Carter's German uniform. "I'm guessing they weren't in Pathfinding."

"Nope, it was harder than that," Carter said with pride.

"All right..." Newkirk said after a few moments of silence. "I'll do it... Carter, which merit badge _did _your ruddy troop earn?"

Carter lost a bit of his enthusiasm. "Uh... f... first aid..."

"Right. And the rest of it?"

"They used only what they were able to find in the woods... to… um…"

"Go on."

"… treat my case of poison oak..."

"I thought as much."

"How much further?" LeBeau asked. "My blisters have blisters."

"Check with our navigator," Newkirk advised. "If you see a big sign sayin' 'Welcome to France,' it's a good bet we've overshot."

Bluebird checked the compass again. "We're about twenty minutes out by my estimate, and we're headed due north." Newkirk, directly behind her, had been making sure to complain with every other step, more than likely in an attempt to rattle her. She didn't plan to give him the satisfaction.

"You can also navigate by the stars," Carter put in. "Did you know that?"

"So we should be looking for a sign that says 'Welcome to the Milky Way'?" Kinch inquired.

"With Birdbrain and Carter leadin' the way?" Newkirk chuckled. "Any minute, mate... _any minute._"

Bluebird let the branch she'd pushed aside snap back and catch him in the face after she passed, gratified by the sudden startled sputter she heard directly behind her. "Oops."

"We could do another bridge _tomorrow _night," Carter picked up. "I've got enough spare parts to rig at least a small charge." He patted the pocket of his uniform affectionately. To Carter, detonator caps were almost like hamsters.

"I thought we might take tomorrow off," Hogan said. "Stay home, relax... that is, if we ever _get _home."

Bluebird was just about to take that as a vote of no confidence in her figures... and just about to double-check them to make _sure_ she knew what she was doing... when suddenly they all heard the sound of feet... _not _their own... in the woods behind them. Hogan signaled for immediate silence so they could listen. Voices... _German _voices... too close for comfort. Even though they were in German uniforms, they always preferred _not _to have to confront the enemy, especially in a hard-to-explain place like the middle of a forest in the dark of night with a still-smoldering bridge less than a mile behind them. Now it was a whole new ballgame. Everyone fell silent, everyone put a hand on his sidearm.

Bluebird knew she really _could _be a liability to them at this point. _This _was where it got hard… the men all knew each other inside and out, could anticipate each other's thoughts and movements, functioned like a well-oiled machine. She could be a viable part of a team, but she had to _know _that team and they had to know _her. _There was no time for discussion or second-guessing. She made eye contact with Colonel Hogan so he'd be aware she was with him… the others didn't need to do that, but she _did. _She wasn't part of this machine… at least not yet.

All six of them hit the dirt when a burst of machine gun fire ripped up the ground _way _too close to their feet. "_Halt_!" a not-to-be-trifled-with voice, _also _way too close, ordered. They halted… Hogan hadn't told them otherwise. The patrol _had _them… they weren't just randomly spraying the woods; they saw them clear as day and they had _deliberately _missed, not accidentally.

"On your feet, all of you!" a different voice ordered. "Throw your weapons to the ground and stand up _slowly_… keep your hands in the air!"

Bluebird did what she was told… but she knew she would have felt a lot more secure if she'd been closer to the rest of her unit, who were between her and the voices. At least, she felt that way until she heard the next command. "All five of you… turn around slowly!"

Five? There were _six _of them. Suddenly she realized that those goons didn't _see _her. They were so focused on Hogan and the others that they hadn't realized that a sixth member of the group, a smaller and better-camoflaged member, had also been caught in their net.

And if they didn't know she was _in _the net, maybe they wouldn't notice if she got _out _of it.

She crouched back down to reclaim her revolver, then stood up halfway. Very slowly, hardly daring to shift her weight, she moved one foot in the opposite direction from the patrol, fearing that at any moment another shot would ring out but she wouldn't hear it because she'd be dead where she stood. Nothing. The line of Hogan's men blocked her from sight of the patrol. She took another step. Still nothing… not directed at _her_ anyway; the patrol was demanding identification from the colonel who was trying to buy time with some backtalk. Two more steps, then behind a tree… she was away!

Now to circle back and get the drop on the patrol from behind. After that, she wasn't sure _what _came next. But she had to hurry; she didn't know how long Hogan could stall.

As for the five Allied POWs who'd just been caught in German uniforms and had visions of firing squads dancing in their heads, the number 'five' struck a chord with them as well. Bluebird made six… where _was _she? They tried their hardest to scan the surrounding terrain without making it obvious that they were looking for someone… if she _had _gotten free, they didn't want to give her away and initiate a search. On the other hand… had she been hit by the warning rounds?

And there was _more _bad news… one of the members of the patrol had found the spare detonator parts in Carter's pocket. "Are you aware, _Herr Major_…" the head goon asked Hogan, "that not a mile from here, a vital bridge has just been sabotaged?"

"I haven't read the evening paper yet," Hogan countered smoothly. "Delivery is a little spotty this far out in the country. Hard to make it through the woods on a bicycle."

"Your identity papers are false and your man here is carrying American-made explosives."

The papers were good forgeries; he was guessing there, based on what he'd found Carter carrying. Unfortunately, there was also Kinch to explain… and Hogan knew full well he couldn't. Kinch in uniform was sometimes necessary for the sake of sheer numbers, but no one would ever mistake him for a Kraut. One of the other patrol members had already noticed that. They were in deep this time.

Giving Carter a rough jab with the butt of his rifle produced a startled "Hey, watch it!" in perfect American English.

"_Ein Amerikaner_," the captain nodded knowingly. "You are _all _American?"

Hogan prayed that neither LeBeau nor Newkirk would take the bait… if they _did _manage to get out of this alive, this chorus line in jackboots would come looking for them, and they already had a real good description… adding a Frenchman and a Brit to the details would only make them that much easier to find, and Stalag 13 would be the logical place to look. Even Klink would be able to put two and two together and realize who those guys were looking for.

Bluebird was just about where she thought she should be in order to advance on the patrol when she saw something _very _surprising… there was a Luftwaffe general standing in the clearing listening to everything that was being said up ahead. What was a general doing out there in the middle of the night? Then she decided she didn't care… the next words spoken by the captain ran her blood cold.

"Turn around," he said sharply. "All of you. _Now._"

"You want to play pin the tail on the donkey?" Hogan goaded him. "It's getting kinda late. And we've got church in the morning."

"Turn around, I say!" She could hear ten unwilling feet shifting in the low brush. "On your knees… hands behind your heads."

That was execution position! _No… oh no…_

She had no more time to evaluate her options; she stepped up behind the general, pulled the hammer back on her pistol as she aimed it at his head and said "_Ein moment, Herr General._"

He stopped cold… exactly as she'd hoped. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Order your captain to release those men."

"No."

"Do it." No response. If she shot first, then _maybe… _"Three, two, one…"

"_Kapitän!" _A coward, just as she'd been hoping. So many of the so-called upper echelon were. "Release those men_!"_

Hogan had just grudgingly dropped to his knees, hands behind his neck, and on either side of him LeBeau, Kinch, Newkirk and Carter had followed suit. So this was it. He'd often wondered how it would all end… but getting shot in the back didn't appeal to him in the slightest, and he was wracking his brain trying to come up with some other option… a diversion… _anything_. If even _one _of them could get away, it would be better than the entire unit going down.

He risked a glance to his right… Kinch had a look of resignation and stared straight ahead; Carter wasn't bothering to be stoic and instead just looked sincerely frightened. On his left, Newkirk was about fifty percent furious and fifty percent nervous, and LeBeau had his eyes closed and was moving his lips in a silent prayer. "Men…" he began, "I…"

Then the call from the dark forest reached their ears. Someone ordering their release? Who? Why? They all looked at one another in confusion.

The captain was confused as well… maybe even more so. "But sir, these men are obviously spies, and probably sabateurs as well!_"_

"Try again, Fritz," Bluebird commanded, still with her gun trained on the back of his head. "_Fast._"

He took a breath and called, louder this time, "You have my order_, Kapitäin! _Release them!_ Schnell!"_

Hogan and the others heard the most beautiful sound in the world… the sound of rifles being lowered. "Get out of here," the captain said in disgust. "Move!"

They didn't have to be told twice… all five of them were up and running before the captain could change his mind.

_Again_.

**00o00**

When they reached the tree stump that concealed the entrance to the tunnel, nobody bothered with the lower half of the ladder; when they got within jumping distance of the floor they just did so to save a couple of seconds and let the next one start down.

When Carter's feet hit the floor he just kept going… he sunk down to a sitting position, his back against the dirt wall. "_Jiminy…_" he gasped. "I never knew my heart could beat so fast…"

Newkirk dropped down beside him. "Funny… mine's _stopped._"

Bluebird was next, then LeBeau; he kept his feet, but only by leaning heavily on the radio desk. "Level with me…" Kinch struggled out. "My hair's gone completely gray, right?"

Even the usually calm and collected Hogan realized that his pulse was racing like an overloaded train on a long downhill run. "Everybody all right?"  
Various murmurs, gasps and groans all more or less confirmed that they were. "Who was that who gave the captain the order?" Kinch wondered.

"A general…" Bluebird replied, still out of breath from the headlong run through the woods.

"A _general_?" Hogan asked. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Racing stripes… both pant legs… not Burkhalter… but I think they both shop the same fat-man outlets."

"Why would a general want us let go?" Carter asked.

"Who said it was _his _idea?"

Hogan couldn't believe his ears for a second. "You mean, _you…_?"

She nodded. "Yeah…"

"How did you know…"

She shook her head. "I _didn't _know… the patrol didn't see me so I tried to circle around and get behind them… then I saw the general… then I heard…" Never mind what she'd heard; they all knew perfectly well… she'd heard them ordered to their knees to be shot in the back. "I stuck my gun at his head and told him to let you go… I didn't think he _would_, but I thought… if _I _shot _first… _maybe it would distract the patrol so you could get away."

LeBeau grabbed her hand and kissed it. "What do you want for dinner? Name it… cheeseburgers… hot dogs… _anything_…"

"Then it was _luck_…" Newkirk said.

"_Newkirk_…" Hogan began. "You want to go back out there and try _yours_ again with that patrol?"

"It _was _luck," Bluebird nodded. "You got _that_ right. I didn't plan _any _of that."

Newkirk had to admit one thing. "I can't argue with your results."

"I was hoping you couldn't," Hogan said, "although the two of you seem to be able to argue about just about anything else. Now… what's a fat Kraut general doing in the woods this time of night?"

"I have a theory, sir," she spoke up.

"Okay, let's hear it."

"I've heard that some of the generals have stashes… money, jewelry, art… in places like unused ammo dumps. You know, out in the middle of nowhere. They get nervous when there's an advance and they either feel like visiting their stash or moving it. Maybe this guy was checking his account balance."

"Plausible…" Hogan mused. "Where'd you pick up on that?"

"Danzig's group was trying to track some stolen art. They followed up a lead from an informant and found a few smaller pieces but didn't uncover the mother lode."

"Maybe we'll have to take a closer look around that clearing… the _real _owners might appreciate getting their stuff back, if there _is_ anything hidden out there. Good thinking, Bluebird… and I guess I really don't have to tell you this, but nice work out there tonight. My life insurance company is very grateful."

"Thank you, sir…" she nodded. "I'm just glad everybody's okay."

"One question."

"Sir?"

"_Would_ you have shot that general?"

She nodded slightly. "I've done it before… it's not my first choice."

"Ours either."

"But one life for five… yes sir, I would have shot him."

Not cocky, or boastful, or arrogant… just an honest answer to a tough question. Hogan had to admit, he was beginning to like this young woman. She was turning out to be a better operative than he could have imagined from first impressions.

**MAY 1945**

"I was going to look you up," Newkirk was saying. "After the war, I mean… you know, just to say hello."

She smiled as she finished the last of her bread and cheese. "You don't have to say that."

"I mean it… really I do." His voice had gotten very soft… she wasn't sure if it was because he was so tired or if he was just treading carefully. "When they reassigned you like that… so fast… I never got a chance to tell you goodbye or anythin'."

"I missed you," she nodded. "I mean… _all _of you."

"I didn't know how I was going to find you… I realized I didn't even know your name."

That's right… of course he didn't; she'd never told him and there was no other way he could have found it out. "Jenny…" she said, feeling strange to say those few syllables that it felt like a lifetime ago had had something to do with her. "Jenny Kimball."

"That's very pretty."

She didn't know what to say… desperately she grabbed the first topic that presented itself. "Your lip is bleeding again."

He looked annoyed… at himself, not at her. "What I was tryin' to say…"

"It's late…" she put in. "And we're both tired… and we need to be ready to move out at dawn."

"Right…" he nodded with not a hint of enthusiasm. He touched the still-damp handkerchief to his lip. "Well… better turn in, then."

Two blankets, two bivouacs, was what she had envisioned… how had it escaped her that Newkirk would be one step ahead of her there? By the time she had hung the bag back up on its nail, with ten marks to cover what they'd taken, he had arranged one blanket to cover the thickest section of straw and the other one on top. "Likely to get chilly tonight," he offered by way of explanation. "We can't start a fire."

She wasn't too sure about _that_. Leave Newkirk to make co-ed sleeping arrangements, and this was what you got. No, he _hadn't _changed… she remembered watching him try similar approaches with the beautiful Underground agents who'd worked with Hogan's team at one point or another. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not so well. Once he'd gotten his face slapped, and LeBeau had chuckled about that for days.

Too bad for him all he had to work with tonight was _her. _Laughable. Maybe the Gestapo had hit him a little harder than he realized.

She joined him on the blanket and he pulled the second one up to cover them both. The straw wasn't _too _uncomfortable, but it would take a little getting used to. She reached underneath and tried to build up enough of a bump to use as a pillow.

Newkirk crooked his left arm behind his head and glanced in her direction. "You all right?"

"Mmm hmm," she nodded. "'Night." In fact, she was _more _than all right. For tonight, a _not_-so-beautiful Underground agent was getting a turn. The fact that it was by default hardly made any difference to her at all. No, this was just fine.

Newkirk, with the benefit of his nap in the back of the staff car between Berlin and Düsseldorf, was tired but not yet ready for sleep. His mind was working a hundred different angles and concerns… how to fix the car, how to get them both back to Stalag 13 if he _couldn't _fix the car, what time was the farmer likely to arrive in the morning, how nice the chestnut curls that spilled across the blanket just a few inches away looked in the cool light of the moon… no, scratch that, he wasn't supposed to be thinking about _that… _were there any patrols on the road that would find the car, had the Allies reached Stalag 13 yet, was that _silk_ he had felt when his hand had brushed the sleeve of her blouse earlier, trained and sensitive fingers that could pick a lock or a pocket with ease?

_No… _that would only complicate things. He would do nothing to make their already precarious situation any worse. His duty was to protect his partner and get them both back home safe and sound. This wasn't just some dame, this was _Bluebird_. She had made it perfectly clear to _all_ of them, he didn't know _how_ many times, that she didn't want to be thought of as a _girl_, but as a colleague, another member of the team. She was also his friend, and he wanted to keep it that way.

She was asleep already; he could tell by her breathing. She would never know… what harm was there? He shifted slightly, just enough to enable him to touch his lips to his sleeping companion's forehead. "Goodnight, Jenny…" he whispered.

He finally dropped off himself about twenty minutes later, but it was without having answered any of the questions he'd been mulling. Well, _one_… yes, that definitely _was _silk. Very nice indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

**JUNE 1942**

One second everything was fine, and the next there was a frightening dull roar and the ground under their feet shuddered perceptibly. Carter grabbed the edge of the nearby bunk to steady himself. "What was _that_?"

Bluebird looked equally unnerved. "Earthquake?"

"A bombing raid gone bad," Hogan conjectured. "Get ready to…"

Then from the open trap door to the tunnel came a huge plume of rising dust and Kinch's voice sounding as panicked as they'd ever heard anyone sound… and Kinch wasn't known for panicking. "Colonel Hogan! Come quick! We just lost a section of the emergency tunnel!"

Hogan vaulted the rail of the bunk and dropped straight to the tunnel floor without even touching the ladder. Carter followed, then Bluebird. "Is anybody in there?" Hogan demanded.

Kinch nodded grimly. "Newkirk and LeBeau."

Carter grabbed a nearby fire bucket, dumped the water on the dirt floor and started scooping out buckets of fallen earth as fast as he could go. To the sides, Hogan and Kinch struck in with loose pieces of bracing timbers. Behind them, Bluebird pulled the excavated earth and rocks out of their way so they had room to work.

"Maybe they made it out the other side," Carter suggested, already getting short of breath from exertion. His pace, though, never slowed.

"Maybe _not_," Hogan replied.

He was right; they couldn't afford to assume the best, they had to respond as if the _worst _possible thing had occurred. If that tunnel had caved in right on top of them, they didn't have long before they asphyxiated. No use even going to get more help; there wasn't any time for that… either they reached those two men in seconds, they were safe on the other side and already in the woods, or they were goners.

Carter's bucket uncovered something brightly-colored… LeBeau's red beret. "Colonel!"

Hogan had already seen it; he dropped the stake and started digging with his bare hands to reach LeBeau. Seconds later the three of them had uncovered his head and shoulders and there was enough to grab so he could be pulled out. After an unnerving couple of seconds, he started to cough… good; that meant he was alive.

Hogan had no time for pleasantries with a man still missing. "Where's Newkirk? Back near the emergency exit?"

"No…" LeBeau struggled to tell him. "Behind me… eight, maybe ten feet…" He fought for breath, clutching his left shoulder.

"Go," Hogan said, gesturing to Carter and then toward the hole LeBeau had just been extracted from that was holding its shape. "See if you can reach him."

Try as he might, Carter couldn't get even his shoulders through that small hole. "It's no good, sir."

"Sir," Bluebird spoke up, shrugging off her fatigue jacket, "I could…"

"Not _now_, Bluebird!"

"But _sir_…" Slight as he was, Carter had fifty pounds on her and Hogan _had_ to realize that.

Hogan looked at her, then again at the hole, then back at Bluebird. "All right, _go_," he snapped. She dove at the tiny opening hands-first, making herself as narrow as possible. "Talk," was the next order to come at her from behind. "Is it clear?"

"So far," she replied. Clear, yes… but really, really tight. Little rocks and sand fell from above onto her back and into her hair.

"Do you see him?"

"_No… _" She felt someone holding her ankle, but in a few seconds she had pulled herself along too far for whoever it was to keep hold.

Then she could hear something… more coughing… but it was coming from in _front _of her, not behind. "Bluebird!" Hogan's voice reached her from what sounded like very far away. "_Talk _to me, that's a direct order!"

"I hear him!" she called, not sure if her voice would carry that far back. "And I see a light!" She dug her fingers into the rough ground and levered herself a few inches deeper. Just a few more feet… it _couldn't _be much further.

Just when she thought she couldn't possibly force herself in any deeper, her hands felt a wider opening. _Finally! _One more hard pull and everything from her waist up was in a space large enough for her to move in.

And, amazingly, there _was _light… a single kerosene lantern was still flickering in defiance of the situation. It was still hard to see, with all the sand and dust still hanging in the air, and it stung her eyes. She reached ahead of her and found something warm in a wool sweater… _Newkirk. _"Got him, sir!" she called back through the opening.

"Is he all right?"

She tried to stand up, but her head hit the top of the hollow area they were in. "_Ow_." Keeping low this time, she crawled up beside him and was relieved when she felt him moving. "Newkirk! Hey, Newkirk, are you okay?"

As with LeBeau, coughing was a good sign. He pulled himself up to his knees and she hung onto his arm to steady him… but he wasn't lifting his head; he just held that position, with his right hand holding the back of his head, groaning faintly in between coughs. "Louis…" was the first actual word she heard out of him. When he didn't get an immediate response he tried again, louder. "_Louis_!"

"He's okay… they got him out."

"What's the story in there, Bluebird?" Hogan's voice again.

Darned if she knew; she could still hardly see. "Um…"

Then Newkirk realized that he wasn't alone… nor was he with the person he last recalled being with. "What the…" He turned his head to face her, still in a half-crouch. "What are _you _doin' here?" he demanded loudly.

"He sounds all right to me, Colonel," Carter opined. "Pretty much like always."

There was only one answer, ridiculous as it might sound. "I fit through the hole…" she started to explain.

"Oh really? Then you can just fit right back _out _the flippin' hole!" With an effort he finally got his head up, but he was still gripping it like he was trying to hold it together. He pointed to the small opening. "Out!"

"All right, both of you pipe down in there," Hogan ordered. "Nobody goes _anywhere _until we can shore up this opening! Stay put and stay as still as possible… we don't want any more of this tunnel giving way."

"Sir, how's me little mate Louis?"

"He'll be okay… looks like he dislocated his shoulder but other than that he's fine."

That news clearly calmed him down somewhat. The dust was finally starting to settle, and they could see a little better. "Stay low," she advised him. "We haven't got much head room."

Almost as if he were hard-wired to ignore her… which she was pretty well convinced that he was… Newkirk tried to stand up and found the situation out the hard way, exactly as she had. "_Ow_!"

"_Don't _believe me…" she muttered.

The glare she got in return was somewhat muted by the flickering lamplight, but she got the message anyway. _Shut up _was exactly the same in the King's English as it was in American English.

"Have you got enough room in there?" Hogan called.

"No, I can still see her…" Newkirk grumbled under his breath. Succeeding this time in getting off his knees and sitting down, he took a cursory look around the small pocket they were trapped in. "Well, sir… got about ten by twenty worth of floor space, as I reckon… bit of a tight fit top to bottom…"

"Really?" Bluebird asked. "I hadn't noticed. Thanks for that."

"Have you ever seen someone put a cat out through one of them little flaps in a kitchen door? Would that I had a broom…"

"Knock it _off_…" Hogan's voice intervened, sounding tired in more ways than one. "Are you both all right?"

"Yes, sir…" he winced, rubbing his forehead.

Did she say it because it was true or because she knew it would push his buttons? "I'm not so sure, sir… he was semi-conscious when I reached him and he's moving as if he's got pain in his head."

"Pain in the _neck_, more like…" he muttered between clenched teeth.

"Newkirk," Hogan called again, "what's the story?"

"Had the wind knocked out of me, sir…"

"Not _enough_…" Bluebird's turn.

"Head trauma?" Kinch asked Hogan.

"Hard to tell with Newkirk, isn't it?" He thought for a moment, then called back into the hole. "Okay, look… here's the deal. We're gonna get a full complement of diggers down here and get to you ASAP. In the meantime… Bluebird, keep an eye on him and let me know immediately if he starts showing any signs of a head injury… dizziness, lack of coordination, anything like that."

"Yes, sir."

"And make sure he doesn't fall asleep. I want him awake and talking. Keep him focused. Understood?"

"I think it was a mistake sending her in there, Colonel," Kinch said.

"Mistake? _No… _she's the perfect one for the job."

"How do you figure that?"

"You know Newkirk can't sleep when he's annoyed. She should be able to keep him wide awake until at least Tuesday."

"You've got a point there," he admitted with a grin. "I'll go round up some diggers."

Back in the hole, Newkirk turned to Bluebird and lowered his voice… a rarity. "What did you want to go and do _that _for?"

"He's my superior officer and he asked me for a report," she hissed. "What did you want me to do, lie?"

"There's nothin' the matter with me…"

She was about to offer her opinion to the contrary when he took his hand away from his forehead and they both saw it at the same time… there was blood on his fingers.

"Well, Alice…" he said in a serious, quiet voice that clearly stated all bets were off on their scrapping. "Welcome to the rabbit hole."

For the first time since she'd met him she _didn't _want to make things any worse for him… all the fun had gone right straight out of it the moment she saw the blood. "What should I do…?" she asked softly, keeping it between the two of them.

"I guess you'd better tell the Colonel…" he admitted.

Oh, she _really _didn't like _that… _he'd come way too far around way too fast, and she realized that she _needed _him to be the same old stubborn, impatient, pushy, arrogant… and indestructible… Newkirk that he'd been ever since that night they'd first crossed swords outside the wire. But he knew the colonel could make the best decisions only if he had all the information.

"Colonel…" she called, trying her best not to sound frightened but aware that she wasn't being completely successful.

"What is it, Bluebird?"

"He's bleeding…"

Hogan lost his own sense of humor on the spot. "_Newkirk?"_

"I'm sorry, sir." That sounded strange to her until she realized that it was the withheld truth and not the injury he was apologizing for.

"You want to try again, and give it to me straight this time?"

"I _did _get knocked out, sir… not for long, but… I guess there _is _a bit more to it than I thought."

"How _much _more?"

"Well..." He winced and pressed the heel of his hand against his temple. "It feels somethin' like New Year's Day... only I can't recall havin' any fun last night."

Oh, great. "We'll get to you as soon as we can," he said.

"We'll be 'ere."

**00o00**

It was already getting pretty warm in there, with the two of them at 98.6 and very little air circulation. She was glad she was in just a t-shirt and khakis. "How long have you been in the army?" she asked… she really didn't have any idea how to get the ball rolling; she felt like she was interviewing him for _Stars & Stripes_.

"_Too _long," came the predictable answer. But he didn't need to be reminded that she was only following orders, and it was for his own good. "Three and a half years."

"Did you enlist, or were you drafted?"

"I enlisted… thought if I waited too long I'd get assigned to the infantry, and I wanted the air force."

"What kind of plane did you fly in?" Not that she knew one kind from any other, but she supposed he did.

"Lancaster bombers, mostly." Realizing that it had been like pulling teeth so far, he tried to help out by offering some additional input before she specifically asked for it. "I was a gunner… nine sorties and eight returns." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Come to find out that was my mistake right there… the numbers in those columns are supposed to match. I must've missed that day in ground school. So… shot down over Dusseldorf, hit the silk, broke me ankle when I landed… basically served meself to the Krauts on a platter."

"But you're _alive. _That's more than a lot of semi-retired gunners can say."

"I suppose."

"Everything all right in there?" they heard Colonel Hogan call out over the steady sound of shovels biting into dirt. "I don't hear any yelling."

"Fine, sir," she answered.

"Newkirk, we expected you to tunnel out from _your _end by now," Kinch's voice kidded.

"_No, _no, you lot don't get out of it that easy… I'm gonna wait right '_ere_; you come and get _me. _First furlough I've had since I got to this bleedin' dump."

"Sounds promising," Hogan remarked to the rest of his men. "And maybe we won't even have to dig a tunnel wide enough to pull them out with their hands around each other's throats after all."

Kinch had been just about to respond to that when another sudden dull roar made them all freeze. In seconds, the small hole where the diggers had just begun to start making significant headway had completely collapsed. Hogan did a rapid headcount... Carter, Kinch, Olsen, Mills, all present and accounted for. That was good.

But they were now completely closed off from Newkirk and Bluebird. That was bad.

Even worse: that hole had been their only way of getting air.

Inside, both Newkirk and Bluebird reflexively ducked for cover when they heard the sound of more earth falling, and they choked on the fresh cloud of dust and sand that billowed up inside their small cavity. But that was all... the ceiling didn't fall on them; they had room to move, they were still alive. As soon as Bluebird was able to pull in a lungful of real air, she yelled as loud as she could toward the spot where the hole had been just seconds earlier.

"Colonel Hogan!"

Nothing came back. She was about to try again when Newkirk's hand on her elbow stopped her. "It's no good... that's done it... they can't hear you."

"You don't know that!"

"I been doin' this a _lot_ longer than you have, and I _know. _Now stop that ruddy hollerin'; I feel like I've got one of Carter's bombs goin' off inside me head as it is." He took a steadying breath of his own and motioned to her to stay calm. "They're still comin', it'll just take 'em longer. They know right where we are. There's nothin' we can do but wait."

**00o00**

"Listen…" Was she imagining it, or was there really a sound other than the crumbling dirt ceiling and steady dripping of groundwater? Time had no meaning anymore. Whether it had been twenty minutes, one hour, two, three, or more that they'd been stuck in there she had no way of knowing... and wasn't sure she _wanted _to know.

"I don't hear anything…" Newkirk said. Well, that wasn't _quite _true… he could hear ringing, but he was pretty sure that was just in his _own _ears.

The sound… if it _was_ over and above the background… was coming from the length of conduit on the far wall. She tried to get her ear as close as she could to the metal pipe. "It's tapping," she reported. "It's really faint."

He listened again… still nothing but that annoying buzzing in his own head. "I still can't hear…"

"It's slow taps and fast ones all mixed up… maybe it's Morse!"

He already knew the answer to the question he was about to ask, based on the words 'mixed up' and 'maybe'. "And do you _read_ Morse code?"

Her heart sank. It was on her list of things to do… if she lived to complete it. "Um… no… you?"

"When I can _hear _it… I'm no expert, but if it's slow enough…"

"This _is… _I've heard what Kinch sends and receives, and this is _much _slower."

"Probably tryin' to tell us somethin'…" And a fat lot of good it was going to do them.

It was _really _faint… that second cave-in had probably damaged the conduit to the point where it wouldn't resonate if banged on with a piece of metal. But it _was _a message, she was _sure _of it, and they needed to find a way to receive it. Suddenly she had a thought. "Give me your hand."

"What?"

No time to explain; they were losing what the others wanted them to know with every passing second. She took his hand and turned it palm-up, holding it in her own left, then listened against the conduit and tried to repeat the taps she was hearing using her right index finger on his palm. "Does this mean anything?"

He was about to tell her that it probably meant she was barmy when he realized that he _did _recognize a letter pattern… and it wasn't just random letters; they were _spelling _something. "Well, I'll be a… L… A… M…"

It was _working_… she couldn't help a nervous, undignified giggle. "Wow…"

"Lamp," he said finally.

"What _about _the lamp?"

"Well, I don't _know… _you go ahead and _ask _'em," he told her, sounding rather impressed with her cleverness.

His ever-present "pencil sharpener" was soon pressed into service, and she tapped the sequence he described on the conduit, then paused to listen for a reply.

"It's no good, Colonel," Kinch said, stepping away from the excavation in progress. "There's nothing coming back… I don't know if it just isn't getting through, or…" Or. The unimaginable "or". They had no way of knowing how far back that last cave-in extended. Or if it had filled in the air pocket.

"Keep trying," Hogan told him, without even thinking about it.

That was what he'd wanted to hear. "Yes, sir." Hogan never gave up… not even if it made sense to… and as long as he insisted the two of them were alive to hear that Morse signal, Kinch would keep sending it.

"Colonel!" Carter called from the hole. "I hear something!"

"Stop all digging!" Hogan ordered. Silence was immediate. Unfortunately, it was also total. "Come on… come _on…_" he urged under his breath. Still nothing. "What did you hear, Carter?"

Then they _all _heard it. Faint, slow, awkward, done with a makeshift tool, but _beautiful_. It was tempting to cheer, but they needed quiet to hear… Kinch tapped out the answer to the question, grinning broadly. "You know, Newkirk really stinks at Morse."

"Tell him later," Hogan said, smiling a little himself. "It's peak now and the rates'll be lower after six."

"_Out_", Newkirk said after she'd finished translating Kinch's reply into his hand.

"He wants us to put the lamp out?"

"He's right; it's burnin' oxygen." It was within reach, so he blew it out. The slight effort made his head swim, but without any light he knew she wouldn't be able to tell. "Okay… now we'll tell 'em it's done." He'd been getting more and more dizzy, and now the total darkness made it even worse… he had no point to fix his eyes on and he felt like he was spinning around slowly although his common sense told him he was perfectly still. But telling them wouldn't solve anything, it wouldn't make them dig any faster, and there was no point.

"Lamp's out," Kinch confirmed to Colonel Hogan when he received the brief message. "Now what?"

"Now tell 'em we're on our way, sit tight, conserve oxygen at all costs, and we'll be there soon. And tell them we'll check in with them every five minutes… if they don't have anything to report just send us back a zero."

Kinch put all that into relative shorthand, but by the time she had tapped all that into Newkirk's palm Bluebird was on overload. "Okay… that's it; that's the end of it."

Newkirk nodded. "Right… well, then… we wait. Might start gettin' good at it. I doubt we'll start to like it."

**00o00**

"So…what about you? You know how _I_ got here… how did _you_ get here? Where did you come from?"

Bluebird hadn't been expecting that; _she'd_ been asking all the questions so far. "We're supposed to save oxygen."

"So the jumpin' jacks are definitely out, then."

She smiled faintly. "Why not… there's not much to tell anyway. I'm from Maine, in the northeast United States… I lived there until I was twenty, watched my cousins get drafted one by one... it was too depressing to stay home and watch. I wanted to help."

"What on earth did your mum and dad say when you left home to come over 'ere in the middle of a war?"

"They died when I was little… I don't remember them."

"I'm sorry…"

She shrugged. "It happens."

"My original plan _had _been to start a pleasant conversation to pass the time… I ought to just shut me cakehole."

"No… it's okay…" The lack of air must have been getting to her, because the next thing she heard herself saying was "I like hearing you talk… the way you put things." He had such interesting expressions and he used them so liberally in his speech… even when he was driving her up a wall she always kind of looked forward to the next inventive bit of British slang that would fall off his tongue.

"Who brought you up, then?"

"Aunts and uncles… they tag-teamed… a year here, six months there. They all had their own families… kids… all boys_; _I was the only girl. I promised myself I'd leave as soon as I could, and twenty was the magic number. How old do you have to be in England to go out on your own?"

He chuckled softly. "I dunno… I never asked. I suppose you could say twelve was _my _magic number. That was when I scarpered from the mill… I knew I could do better."

"The mill?"

"Cotton mill… Albion, just outside London. I was there from the time I was eight 'til I turned twelve and left it behind. Not a pleasant place to try and scrape out a livin'."

"I know… I was at the Bates complex in Lewiston from sixteen to twenty."

"You're jokin'…"

"Spinning room, mill five… no joke."

"Me too… spinnin' room… filler, runner and scavenger."

"Wow…" she murmured… yes, she was definitely getting lightheaded. "How about that… all this time I thought all we had in common was speaking English."

"And here we are, both charter members of the spinners and weavers guild… junior chapter."

Trapped underground and waiting to die… but there was no point in saying that; he already knew it. "So… didn't _your _parents have anything to say about you going off on your own at twelve?"

"Not a word… my mum's havin' a nice game of gin with yours right about now… and I ought to warn you the old dear's probably got at least three cards in her garter belt."

There it was again. That was Newkirk-ese for 'my mother died when I was a kid'. "I'm sorry," she said, because he'd said it to her.

"Not to worry. And me dear ol' dad went out for cigarettes and a racin' form in 1922 and hasn't been heard from since. Very poor sense of direction on that side of the family… still, he might turn up any day now."

The dismissive way he phrased it was one hundred percent Newkirk… and yet, she thought she detected something in his tone, something else. Disappointment. Anger. She didn't really know how old Newkirk was; she guessed twenty-seven or twenty-eight… so that meant he'd been about seven years old when his father had walked out on him. 'I'm sorry' was not going to be able to cover that… so she didn't try. "Who did you live with…?" She realized she wasn't asking because she needed to keep him awake anymore… she really wanted to know.

"Well… after me mum passed, I went on to the mill… they took 'em at eight then; don't know if they still do. I had a sister, Mavis, ten years older… she'd got married, just startin' out you know, and there was no place else for me, so she sent me on to Albion… I stayed there 'til I decided I'd had enough."

Was she hearing this right? His father left, his mother died, and his sister sent him to live at the _mill_? She'd heard of such things at Bates, but it hadn't been done that way for decades. And had it been a huge improvement to have had to hit the streets alone at twelve? Yet he was telling her this in the same tone of voice he'd have used to tell her her shoe was untied. And he didn't even _like _her.

"What… what did you do after you left…?" It was getting very hard to force words out, but she wanted to know the rest of it… and he seemed to have no reluctance to tell her. His air was as thin as hers was, after all.

"What _didn't _I do…?" She could hear him smiling. "I was a quick study; all nerve and no shame… it was all about getting somethin' to eat, and I knew that game. Taught meself to pick locks… still a right hand with those… confidence schemes, magic tricks, pickin' pockets, a bit of vaudeville 'ere and there… whatever I _had _to do, I learned how and I did it."

He sounded proud of himself, and she could see why… he'd _survived_, after all, managed to keep himself alive on the streets with only his own wits to depend on. That was something to be proud of.

"You know the real irony? I'd just started out as a tailor's apprentice… a _real _trade, one they don't lock you up for… I was gettin' good at it and I even liked it… and then the ruddy war broke out. Instead of _pickin_' pockets, I thought I'd be able to make an honest livin' sewin' 'em… but there went the shop in a bombin' raid. Should've known; things never work out like that for me… never 'ave, never will…" Talking was starting to exhaust him, so he stopped… and that was bad for Bluebird, because when it got quiet he could hear her trying not to cry. "_Here…" _he said gently, reached for her hand and held it. "They'll be through any minute… you wait and see… we'll be fine…"

And he thought _that _was why she was crying? All this time in that hole, half of it in total darkness, hearing the water seeping in and feeling the ceiling fall little by little on her head and shoulders, knowing they were running out of air and time, she'd held it together until this very moment, and now it was like he either didn't remember saying those things just a minute ago or he simply had no idea how his words could affect someone who hadn't even been there. Did he just go through life assuming that nobody had any _feelings_? And yet, if he _did _really believe that to be true, how could she fault him for coming to that conclusion after what had happened to him?

`"I know…" was all she said.

**00o00**

"Colonel!" Carter yelled from the far end of the rescue tunnel. "We're through!"

"All right, get 'em out of there _quick_," Hogan barked, himself halfway into the opening. There'd been no answer to their last signal. "There's not enough bracing on that last section; we need to move fast!"

That sounded good to Carter; he grabbed the first pair of ankles within reach, which happened to be Bluebird's, and pulled towards the opening. She was light and easy to move; Newkirk would be harder if he wasn't still conscious.

Colonel Hogan took charge of Bluebird as soon as she was on the other side, and Carter immediately dove back into the hole to go after Newkirk, followed by Kinch… Kinch couldn't fit through all the way to the connection, but he was strong and he had the best chance of pulling Newkirk out if necessary.

And it was. It would have been nice to be a little more careful with him, since he'd already taken a beating, but Carter didn't like the crumbling sound he heard from above, or the way Kinch kept yelling "Hurry up, Andrew!" either. He would never know how he managed to shift Newkirk's weight in that small space with no room to maneuver, but somehow he got him into the opening and shoved him far enough along for Kinch to get hold of him and pull. And without any time to spare… Carter felt the unbraced section come down on his legs on his way out, and he had to fight his way out the last few feet. Landing in a heap on the floor of the radio room even felt _good._

Newkirk, covered head to toe in loose earth, had begun to revive as soon as the fresh air touched his face and was caught up in a coughing fit while LeBeau thumped him on the back with his good right hand. Kinch passed him a canteen but he waved it away; it felt like his lungs were full of sand. "That was _too _close," Kinch said.

"No kiddin'," Carter nodded, glancing back at the totally collapsed hole.

Hogan hadn't said anything yet… good job, bad job, everybody okay, more bracing next time, nothing. Four heads turn to find out why not… and four hearts skipped a beat.

Hogan was on his knees over the motionless form on the floor in front of him, working to blow air into her lungs… he filled them twice, then put his ear to her chest to listen for a heartbeat.

Kinch launched himself at the ladder leading up to the barracks. "Medic!"

Newkirk tried to move towards her but LeBeau held him back. "Let him work," he urged. "Give him some room… there's nothing you can do over there, _mon pote_…"

He might be right, but Newkirk wasn't interested in 'right' at the moment. "Come on, darlin', you can do it!" he called over. "Don't you think for a minute you're gonna get away with _that_, not after the way you been houndin' me to keep _my _oar in…!" His voice broke and he started to cough again. "Don't you _dare, _don't you bleedin' _do _it…"

The medic rushed down the ladder and across the radio room. It was all coming back to Newkirk now, as Colonel Hogan and the medic both worked feverishly over the small, lifeless form on the dirt floor. All those times he'd told her to get lost… leave him in peace… go away. "I didn't mean it…" he realized he was saying aloud. "I _never_ meant it…"

A sudden shallow gasp… she pulled in a breath, and everyone else held theirs. Then she drew another one… ragged, difficult, but at least she was doing it on her own. "I've got a pulse," the medic reported.


	6. Chapter 6

**MAY 1945**

Newkirk awoke with a start. The cell block…

No… the light was very, very faint, but he didn't need to _see _to be able to tell the difference between his cell and this place. For one, it was much warmer. For another, he'd been all alone in the cell… here, his left arm was wrapped around a warm, soft girl who slept nestled against his shoulder. Was it _really_…?

It _was _Bluebird. That _hadn't_ been a dream… here she was; dropped in out of the clear blue sky to get his neck out of the ever-tightening grip of Hochstetter's Gestapo goons, and now they were on their way back to Stalag 13 to watch the liberators ride through the front gate. And what a sight that was going to be.

Two days ago he wouldn't have given a farthing for his chances of seeing this day dawn… he'd been pretty sure the world would be down one Peter Newkirk by now. The Nazis were impatient. He'd been certain that soon they were either going to finish him off, or, not having any way of knowing that the war was in its final days, he'd have to finish _himself _off before they managed to torture anything out of him. He'd been mulling over the most effective way of committing suicide in the cell when the guard had opened the door and forced him to his feet... and then he'd considered trying to get himself shot while trying to escape. All that with Bluebird just down the corridor. Why _hadn't_ he made that mug shoot him? It would have been easy. But the will to live was too strong.

The last thing in the world he wanted to do was get up. But he had to… it would be daybreak soon, full force, they needed to be up and out of here before the farmer arrived to find that his breakfast had been their dinner… farmers _did _sometimes carry guns, he knew. He needed to check out the car, see if he could fix it… his throat was parched and he needed some more water… and they _both _needed to make it back to Stalag 13 to see the liberators arrive. Those needs put together outweighed his need to stay where he was, warm and comfortable in the clean sweet straw, enjoying the way Bluebird's soft breaths felt against his shoulder. Slowly, he started to try and extricate himself without waking her.

Not easy. Ordinarily he probably could have managed all right, had had plenty of practice over the years with birds of almost every other variety, but stiff and sore as he was it was hard enough just to _move_, let alone move with enough caution and grace to avoid waking someone snuggled up close to him. And she hung _on… _he saw her fingers close on his sleeve as he attempted to ease himself to a sitting position. With a tired smile, still only half-awake himself, he gently loosened her grasp and laid her hand back down on the blanket.

It was going to be a good day. He was sure of it. How could it miss?

**00o00**

Bluebird opened her eyes to find the first pink light of dawn coming in the hayloft window. _Hayloft? _Then she remembered. She turned over slowly and ran a hand through her hair. "Newkirk…?"

Not there. She had a moment of panic… then she looked around and realized that she just needed to put two and two together. That was a fresh half-bucket of water a few feet away; they had used all of last night's washing up before hitting the hay… literally. His RAF tunic covered her, in addition to the blanket, against the crispness of the spring morning. He hadn't gone far, and he'd be back.

She had just rationalized all that when the door opened and Newkirk entered, carrying a shallow tin and looking surprisingly spry. "Well, hello hello," he smiled when he saw she was awake. "We've got a beautiful day started out there… what say we have a spot of breakfast and head for home?"

"You look better," she smiled in return. The bruise on his eye still looked awful, but he was moving with a bit of the old spring in his step that he hadn't had yesterday.

"After I worked a few kinks out I managed all right… be right as rain in a year or two." He set the tin down on the edge of the blanket with a bit of flair. "Does strawberries and cream meet with milady's approval?"

"You are the _best _at finding food."

"I'm only glad you slept through my trying to get some milk out of that ruddy cow out there… posed a serious and lasting threat to my dignity, I can tell you."

"Sorry I missed it."

"Well, _I'm _not." He lost a bit of the lightheartedness in his tone. "I do have some bad news, I'm afraid… there's nothin' I can do with the car, not without tools. There's nothin' in the boot that'll be of any use."

There went their chance to be liberated along with their unit… by the time they walked from Düsseldorf to Stalag 13 it would probably all be over. "Well… okay, they'll have to save us some champagne. Looks like we walk."

"I'm sorry," he said gently. "I know it meant a lot to you… it meant a lot to me too."

Even _more_, she was certain… _he _was the one who had lived with those guys day and night for all those years, risking their lives together, depending on one another. Not being there when the camp was finally liberated would be a _big_ loss to him. "I know…" she nodded.

But there was nothing they could do about it and that was that. "Well… nothin' else for it. Let's eat up and get goin'. Oh… and…" He gestured to the black Gestapo uniform jacket she wore. "You might think about leavin' _that _behind… might as well stick a pair of antlers on your head and go for a stroll in Nottingham Forest durin' the huntin' season."

Good point. She shrugged it off as soon as she got to her feet. "I didn't know you cared," she teased.

"Care? 'Course I care. Who do you think'll be walkin' right beside you?"

**NOVEMBER 1942**

"Okay, Andrew!"

Hand over hand, Newkirk started to pull the bucket loaded with dirt out of the hole in the back of the snowman. This took the cake, this did… the most out-of-this-world tunnel entrance camouflage the colonel had come up with yet.

Once the bucket was up, Carter followed… he hauled a second bucket up behind him, then the two of them struggled to pick up one other pail each and then attempt to conceal their burdens underneath the blankets draped over their shoulders, doubly challenging because of the way the wind was whipping around. Somehow they managed to make it to the barracks without being seen by the guards. It was a constant string of blind luck… skill had nothing to do with it; not in _this _caper.

The two of them staggered into the barracks and let the buckets drop as soon as they were inside. "I have _got _to have a rest before I go out there again…" Newkirk groaned, dropping onto the closest bunk and casting aside the heavy blanket.

"Boy, me too…" Carter echoed, doing likewise. He glanced over to the bunk where Kinch and LeBeau were at work making their own version of snowballs, packing snow around handfuls of dirt to conceal the excavated material. "How's that going?"

"Is that _all _you've got done?" Newkirk asked with about as little tact as possible.

"You think this is easy?" LeBeau bristled.

"You want to try some _hard _work, get out there and do some diggin'!" He fanned himself with a magazine… he and Carter were both down to their undershirts; it was a hot, sweaty job even in the middle of a blizzard.

Bluebird hurried out of Hogan's office, picked up a potholder and grasped the handle of LeBeau's best saucepan firmly to lift it off the stove. "Okay, fellas, try this."

Newkirk had been about to snap another ill-advised comment over to the snowball-makers, but instead grabbed for his discarded blanket and held it up to his chest for cover. "Look, do you _mind_?"

She barely noticed, she was so intent on seeing if her idea worked. She carried the pot over to the floor by Kinch's feet and set it down. "It's not hot, it's barely melted…let's put some more snow in to keep it cold."

Equally startled, Carter opted to duck behind the clothesline which gave him Colonel Hogan's drying dress shirt for modesty. "Um… Bluebird… do you think maybe you could…"

"What?" she asked distractedly. When Carter didn't answer she looked over at him… and he ducked down a little lower behind the clothesline. "What's the matter with you?"

"He'd _like _a little _privacy_," Newkirk translated. "As would _I._"

For a moment she sincerely thought he was putting her on… then, when she realized he was serious, she laughed. "Oh, come _on_… do you have any idea how many times I've seen my cousins in their undershirts?"

"You feel free to list 'em all, and take your time." He pointed to Hogan's office door. "_In there._"

Her turn for an eye-roll… fine time for his modesty to kick in; when she was busy. She decided to ignore him. "Don't get the snow _too _wet," she told Kinch and LeBeau, demonstrating how to add just a little bit of water at a time. "But it's so cold outside it's way too dry… that's why it doesn't stick so good." After moistening both the dirt and the snow, she ended up with a firmly-packed ball, which she held up and then added to the pile on the bunk. "See?"

"_Magnifique,_", LeBeau said, doing likewise.

"You're an expert," Kinch agreed.

"I'm from Maine," she nodded proudly.

"Where I've heard they have very little fashion sense," Newkirk broke in again, pointing back at the door with one hand and determinedly holding onto the blanket with the other. "Will you get _out…_?"

Hogan hustled into the barracks from outside, looking concerned. "Schultz coming." Then he noticed Carter and Newkirk. "What's going on?"

"Newkirk and Carter went suddenly dainty on us," Kinch chuckled as he pulled a spare blanket over the array of snowballs to keep it out of Schultz's sight.

"Oh, for the…" He gestured to his office. "Bluebird, in there."

"_I _been tellin' her that for five minutes," Newkirk said.

Well, she _had _to do it now… now it was an order, and now Schultz was on his way in. "Right, sir." She sprinted towards the doorway as Newkirk finally started to lower the blanket… then she stopped and turned around. "Hey, Newkirk?"

Up came the blanket again, in the blink of an eye, and one very frustrated and flustered corporal snapped, "What is it _now_?"

She smiled mockingly. "Your slip is showin'."

He lobbed the magazine at her. It was close; she barely managed to slam the door behind her just as it hit where she'd been standing. "Sir, the Geneva Convention _can't_ require us to put up with _that_… any chance of talkin' Marseille into takin' her off our hands?"

**MAY 1945**

It was going to be a long walk. The back road was packed earth and rocks… safer than an autobahn from a safety standpoint, but murder on Bluebird's high-heeled boots. On her right, Newkirk was doing the best he could with a bad left knee. They were holding hands.

It was to steady one another when they missed their footing. Purely a tactical maneuver.

They'd been on the road about an hour when she started to notice that he was breaking stride and sticking in an awkward little hop on his right leg to save wear on his left. At first it was only occasional, but another quarter of a mile later he was doing it more and more frequently. Army boots were not designed for hopscotch. "I think we need a break," she suggested. And she _did _mean 'we'; her tight boots that had not been designed for hiking were starting to pinch her toes and wear on her heels. When they got back to camp she was planning to spend about two hours soaking her feet in warm water.

Before Newkirk had a chance to agree with her… and he had been about to… a sound from behind them made them temporarily forget their exhaustion, aches and pains. They looked at one another and their eyes locked. "Tank coming!" he whispered urgently.

They sprinted, still hand in hand, to the dubious safety of a bunch of scrub brush by the left side of the road. Dressed in black, white, and blue, they were hardly a good match for the greens and browns of the hillside.

"Keep your head down," Newkirk coached. Her heart racing, she did exactly as he told her… she knew he was better at that kind of thing than she was and she was perfectly okay with letting him call the shots; they would live longer that way. She rested her forehead on her crossed arms and started to pray.

The rattle and clank got closer and closer, and she could feel the ground rumble with the sheer weight of the machine… probably machines. She had no idea what to expect next, so when she heard Newkirk laugh it just struck her as the next thing in logical sequence rather than something totally unexpected, an anomaly. "Blimey… it's _our _boys… or, more correctly, _your _boys."

Her head popped up. The sight of the American insignia on the lead tank was so welcome it was like a dream… just exactly what she'd _wanted _to see, and there it _was. _They both scrambled to their feet and approached the road, hands carefully in plain sight until they could be recognized as allies.

The lead tank pulled up and stopped when the commander spotted them, and the rest of the queue followed suit. "Identify yourselves," the soldier in the turret called.

"Corporal Peter Newkirk, RAF," Newkirk replied. "And this is Underground Agent Bluebird… we had a spot of car trouble south of Dusseldorf."

That checked. "Captain Howard Avery, United States Army. I think we spotted your car back a mile or so, if it was a commandeered Krautmobile."

"That's the one," he grinned. "You wouldn't happen to be in the market for a used staff car, would you? Only driven by a little old _kommandant _on Sundays."

"Do you know anything about the condition of this road between here and Hammelburg?"

"I drove it last night, sir," Bluebird spoke up. "No checkpoints, no mines, nothing to report."

He angled his cap slightly… he wasn't used to getting statements like that from civilians. "You're an American?"

"Yes, sir," she smiled. "And I'm _really _glad to see that flag again."

"We're on our way to liberate Luft Stalag 13, just outside Hammelburg… since you're familiar with the area, could you give us an idea how long it'll take to get there?"

Newkirk and Bluebird turned to each other in amazement… they hadn't missed it after all! "I should think it's about an hour and a half by tank, sir," Newkirk replied. "And in fact, we're assigned to Stalag 13 and we were on our way back hopin' to _be _there for the liberation… any chance we could cadge a lift?"

"You're assigned to 13?" Avery asked. "Hogan's Heroes?"

"I think there _are _some who call us that, yes sir," Newkirk replied with somewhat uncharacteristic modesty. "But what we really are is a handful of very tired, very happy people who can't wait to go home… it's been a long war."

"I'd consider it an honor to assist Colonel Hogan in any way possible, Corporal… climb aboard."

Oh, what beautiful words. Newkirk didn't know exactly how an hour and a half by tank translated to traveling on foot, but he knew the ratio would be daunting.

Next thing Bluebird knew, two men on the tank had her wrists and were lifting her up onto the front of the machine, setting her down like a feather amidst a chorus of muted wolf whistles. She turned around and knelt down to see if Newkirk needed any help… well he _did_, but he wasn't willing to advertise it in front of an armored battalion who had just given his companion their own version of a twenty-one-gun-salute, and glad as he was of the ride he did look a little irked at all the whistling.

"Do you need a medic?" Avery asked him… he didn't know the half of it, but the bruised eye was all too obvious.

Again, the honest answer was 'yes', but Newkirk deferred the offer as soon as he climbed aboard. "No thank you, sir."

"What happened to you, Corporal?"

"I, uh… went a few rounds with some Gestapo goons," he answered. "Not as bad as it looks, sir."

Avery was visibly impressed… and Newkirk equally relieved that his dignity wouldn't have to take another hit. "Good work, Corporal."

"Thank you, sir." He glanced at Bluebird. "I had help."

"You can tell us about it on the road… let's get underway. Forward!"

There was a place just above the treads and below the hatch that would accommodate the two hitchhikers, and they settled into place like two kids in the back of a pickup truck at a drive-in movie. The tank lurched into motion and the eager, excited bunch of soldiers gave a cheer… well, _they_ had plenty of energy. Bluebird wondered how long they'd been in battle. She knew she felt a lot older than she had when she'd started out.

"It's like Paris_,_" she told Newkirk with a smile. "The Allied tanks came right up the _Avenue d'Italie_, and the Parisians were jumping up onto them and waving to the crowd, and passing wine to the soldiers, and they were kissing all the girls…"

"Sounds smashin'." His tone did not go with his words. "How _was_ that, then?"

"I didn't mean it like _that_." How had it come out _that_ way? And did he _care_? Impossible. He'd known her for a long time, and he was just a little protective of her, that was all… the same way a big brother would react if an entire battalion of fresh young soldiers had wolf-whistled his little sister.

"And about how many blokes on tanks would you estimate kissed _you _on the _Avenue d'Italie_?" This time it was intoned as a tease… and his French pronunciation was still as atrocious as ever. "Five? Ten?"

"Newkirk…"

"Oh my goodness… _twenty_?"

"Stop," she laughed. "I didn't see one single guy on a tank that I _wanted _to kiss." Until now. And she realized that she wanted to _say _that… but she was too afraid of making a fool out of herself_._ Talk about pushing your luck… that would be like shoving it right over the rim of the Grand Canyon.

Next thing she knew, his lips were touching hers. "Well, there you go… can't have you missin' out completely, can we?"

The battalion had started to sing _Stars and Stripes Forever_ as they rolled along, and she doubted she would ever be able to hear that anthem again without coming back to that moment in her mind. They were on the road back to Stalag 13, they were safe, the war was over, and Newkirk had just kissed her.

Another cheer from the tank crew went up as they all spotted a formation of American aircraft overhead, and that one she joined, both fists in the air and kicking up an ankle.

Sometimes you just caught a lucky break.


	7. Chapter 7

**MAY 1945**

As the convoy rolled along, the boisterous, energetic tank crew sang everything from the Air Force anthem to _Tipperary _to borrow from the previous war, and anything else that came to anybody's mind. Newkirk even found a couple of soldiers who had British grandparents and were willing to join him on _God Save the King; _he himself wasn't much of a hand at staying on key, but what he lacked in musical ability he more than made up for in enthusiasm. It was a pleasant ride; they were actually a bit disappointed to catch sight of the familiar guard towers around the final hill.

"We're home," Newkirk said to Bluebird. "Not exactly the way I expected, but…"

But they were there for the liberation. They _were _the liberation! Bluebird sat forward, holding Newkirk's uniform tunic close around her shoulders so it wouldn't slip off… he'd been right; in spite of the sunny morning, after a few miles it had gotten a bit chilly riding on the outside of a tank. The black Gestapo jacket she'd left behind at the barn at his suggestion had been dangerous, yes, but it had also been warm. "I'm surprised the colonel doesn't have anyone in the towers."

"I wonder…" he mused as Captain Avery signaled for the convoy to come to a halt.

"What's the best approach, Corporal?" Avery asked.

"For you lot, sir, the front gate is about a half-mile straight ahead. For the lady and I…"

Suddenly she knew exactly what he was thinking. "Oh, we _shouldn't…_"

"And why not? I can promise you right now that we'll never hear the end of it if the lads see us ridin' into camp on a tank, darlin'."

He had a point there. "So we…"

"Sir," he said to Avery, getting to his feet, "if you wouldn't mind lettin' us off right about here, we'll see you inside. We've got our own way in."

The captain looked sincerely surprised, but saw no reason to object. "You want to sneak back _into _the camp?"

"That's the general idea, sir." He scrambled down to the ground and then reached up to help Bluebird… this time _before _any other overly helpful young men could step forward. "If you wouldn't mind givin' us just a few minutes to access the emergency tunnel… I think you'll understand that we'd like to be with our unit on this important occasion."

Well… why not? "All right, Corporal… we'll see you and Agent Bluebird on the inside." Hogan and his team had their own way of doing things, he knew… everyone said so. And you couldn't argue with their results, that was for sure.

**JANUARY 1943**

That _wasn't_ LeBeau. The figure inside that familiar uniform with the _Croix de Lorraine_ on the sleeve was too small, even for LeBeau.

"You _can't_ be serious," Hogan said. "Roll call's in two minutes, we're down a man, and _this _is the best you guys can do?"

"It's dark out," Carter reminded him.

"It's not _that _dark." He came over and took a better look. _No_… even with the scarf wrapped around the lower part of her face to conceal the lack of stubble, Bluebird wasn't anything close to a dead-ringer for the not-so-present, and _un-_accounted-for, LeBeau. "You've _gotta_ be kidding."

Newkirk adjusted the beret to an angle that kept a little more of her face in shadow. "I don't think she looks all _that _bad, sir… I had to lengthen the trousers a bit, of course, but…"

"I _don't _think LeBeau would appreciate that," Carter informed him.

"Got any other ideas, Colonel?" Kinch asked.

"No I don't," he admitted. "Which is why I'm desperate enough to go along with _this _one. Our only other option is to admit LeBeau's not back yet, which means an escape, which means extra guards and dogs in the woods, which means there's no way we can count on being able to use the tunnel to get out and blow up that convoy tomorrow night." He finally turned to Bluebird. "All right, showtime… you know what to do?"

"Yes sir," she replied, her voice muffled by the scarf. "Follow Newkirk and stand to his left, keep my head down, don't stand still, keep my arms crossed…"

"And the rest of us will keep our _fingers _crossed."

"LeBeau really moves around a _lot_," Carter reminded her. "He's right in front of me so I notice it… move your feet, your arms, your hands…"

"That's right… squirm around all you possibly can, and you'll know you've got it just exactly right when you feel my elbow jabbin' you in the ribs," Newkirk added.

She looked again to Colonel Hogan. "What do you _really _think, Colonel?"

"I think I'm glad it's not _Kinch _who's missing a roll call."

The barracks door opened abruptly and Schultz entered. "Excuse me, _gentlemen_," he said with exaggerated patience and a forced smile on his chubby face. "But we are having a roll call outside, and it would be much more _fun _if you would find the time to join us... _bitte_."

"Be right there, Schultz," Carter told him.

"_Now!" _Schultz, his face starting to go even more red than the cold outside had already made it, was finished with being polite. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner he could get back to pretending he was doing something vitally important in the _Kommandant's_ outer office where it was warm.

"All _right, _all _right_... boy, somebody sure got up on the wrong side of the war this morning."

"You too, Cockroach." Schultz gave the diminutive figure in the red beret a chummy clap on the back, and was startled when he almost knocked the wearer of the beret to the ground. "_Was ist los_?"

Kinch got an arm around Bluebird and hung on, keeping her face turned away from Schultz. "Oh... uh... LeBeau's not feeling too well tonight, Schultz. Let's get this roll call over with so he can get to bed, okay?"

Schultz was about to apologize sincerely to his very favorite prisoner... then he realized that something about LeBeau was different this evening. His little Cockroach was looking littler than usual. Warily, he stepped closer for a better look. "LeBeau...?"

"Okay, fellas, you heard what Schultz said!" Hogan interrupted, motioning to all of them to head for the door. "Roll call! Let's not be tardy, now... that looks bad for the whole barracks! Move it, move it!"

"_Wait _a minute!" Schultz ordered. He peered closer still at the face underneath the beret... what little of it he could see that wasn't swathed in the red scarf. "Why is LeBeau _smaller_?"

Hogan managed a laugh. "Smaller? Schultz, you'd better get your eyes checked."

"He _is _smaller!"

"Maybe he shrunk in the rain this afternoon... it was coming down pretty hard."

"I think there is some of your funny business going on, Colonel Hogan…"

"What're you talkin' about, Schultzie?" Newkirk asked with a big smile that he hoped would disarm the sergeant's suspicions.

"I'm talking about _this!" _Schultz grabbed the beret off the head of the figure purporting to be LeBeau, and immediately regretted it... what good was it being _right_, when he now had to figure out what to do about what he had discovered? "_Ach du Lieber_... _eine Fraulein_!"

"Now, Schultz..." Hogan began.

"Colonel Hogan, _please_... it is _verboten _to have a girl in the barracks!"

"Schultz, first of all, that's not a girl."

"It's not...?" Schultz asked hopefully.

"No... it's an Underground agent."

Schultz shook his head briskly to clear it. "And that's supposed to be _better_?"

"Well, she doesn't like being called a girl... I'm just tryin' to help you out. It's a very hostile war, Schultz; you don't want to lose a chance to make a friend, do you?"

Bluebird looked terrified, but she followed Hogan's lead and extended her hand. "Hi, Sergeant... _Guten Abend._"

"There, you see, Schultz? Very friendly. But you gotta meet her halfway... don't call her a girl."

"Colonel Hogan, _please! Where _is _LeBeau_? I mean, the _real _LeBeau!" His voice had lost most of its authoritative cadence and now was more of a pleading whine.

"Well, he's not exactly here right now..."

"When will he _be_ exactly here?"

"Hopefully by morning roll call; he's just out doing a little sightseeing."

"Colonel Hogan, I must report this... it would be worth my life... you must tell me..."

"Okay, Schultz; you wanta know where LeBeau _really _is and what he's _really _doing?"

"_Nein! Don't _tell me." He backed slowly away, towards the door. "I want to know _nothing_... I see _no-thing_... oh, excuse me..." He stepped forward just enough to slap the beret back on Bluebird's head. "_You_... do _not _let the _Kommandant_ see you!"

Hogan shrugged. "Well, if you'd _rather _report a man missing..."

"_No! _That one, she goes out to the formation! I mean don't let the _Kommandant_ see... what... under the... _Raus, bedeuten!_"

**MAY 1945**

Carter came in from outside and closed the barracks door behind him. "Anything?" he asked hopefully, although the expressions on his companions' faces pretty much told him there wasn't.

"Not yet." LeBeau warmed up Hogan's coffee. He was trying too hard to sound matter-of-fact, as if he were waiting for an unimportant phone call and didn't particularly care if it never came.

"Well, I climbed up to the guard tower about twenty minutes ago and took a good look, three hundred sixty degrees with binoculars… I still don't see the Allies."

"Don't tell me _they're _missing _too." _But Hogan's heart wasn't in the banter. Newkirk and Bluebird were almost twelve hours overdue. Where _were _they?

"How long does it take to get here from Berlin by car?"

_Too _long. "_Anything_ could have happened. Maybe it took longer to get Newkirk out. Maybe they had to take a detour. This clock-watching isn't doing anybody any good."

"Unfortunately we have nothing _else _to do," LeBeau reminded him.

That was true enough. With nobody to assist in escaping, no Germans to outwit, and no sabotage to carry out, Hogan realized that his team was the next best thing to obsolete. He couldn't _order _them to go play horseshoes or something… and _he _didn't feel like doing anything either. It seemed disloyal somehow, as if it would mean they didn't care.

The sound of the tunnel opening raised everyone's hopes momentarily, but they plunged again when they saw that it was Kinch, and he was alone. He was carrying his clipboard, and he wasn't smiling. "Message, Colonel."

As soon as Hogan read it he understood the full implication. "An explosion at Gestapo headquarters…" he said flatly. "The building's a total loss."

"Are they crazy?" LeBeau demanded hotly. "The Allies are supposed to be _liberating_, not _destroying!"_

"They don't _know_ who did it… could just as easily have been the Krauts destroying evidence."

"_When_, Colonel…?" Carter asked with reluctance. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

"Yesterday evening… just before five o'clock."

Or put another way, just about the time Bluebird had expected to be there to free Newkirk. "No…" LeBeau said resolutely. "No, I don't believe that…"

"I don't think we should accept it without some additional reports, Colonel," Kinch added.

"Look, it is what it is!" Hogan seldom raised his voice to his command, but he was the first one to admit that he got testy when something went wrong… horribly, irreparably wrong. "This is _exactly _what I _didn't _want to happen… we lost _both _of them. Not wanting to accept it doesn't change it. If they were coming back, they would have been here hours ago, or found a way to get a message to us… there's been no word, and now this."

Carter's knees told him that he'd better sit down, and he dropped to the edge of his bunk. LeBeau set down the coffee pot and folded his arms pensively. Kinch leaned a shoulder against the wall. And Hogan stood motionless, still holding the message that told him Newkirk and Bluebird were buried in tons of Kraut rubble. The moment of silence in respect for their fallen comrades didn't have to be formally requested… it just happened spontaneously, like breathing.

The silence was broken when the door opened again and Klink ran inside, then turned and slammed it shut behind him. "They're here…" he gasped, terrified. "The Allies… they're _here!"_

"Their timing stinks," Hogan grumbled.

A brisk, sharp knock on the door, and Klink threw his full weight against it. "Go away!" he screamed.

"_Herr Kommandant_!" Schultz's howl of protest on the other side sounded just as panicky. "Let me _in! Herr Kommandant!"_

LeBeau smiled sadly. "I can imagine how Newkirk would be laughing at this…"

"Me too…" Kinch nodded.

"Colonel…?" Carter piped up. "Do you think we could ask the Allies to come back tomorrow…?" He leaned forward on his bunk and drew his legs up. "I don't... really feel much like being liberated right now…"

He didn't lack compassion, and Carter required a little special handling from time to time, but Hogan had already decided what they were going to have to do. "Okay, everybody fall out," he said quietly.

The three pairs of eyes that suddenly turned on him told him they disagreed... a rarity. "But _Colonel_…" Kinch began.

Schultz finally succeeded in pushing the door _and _Klink aside, hurried in with a speed surprising for someone of his size, and joined Klink in leaning on it as hard as he could. "_Ach du Lieber…" _he groaned in panic.

**00o00**

Having entered the system through the emergency tunnel, Newkirk and Bluebird hurried past the print shop, the wine cellar, and finally reached the radio room. Newkirk gestured to the ladder. "First floor, sportswear… second floor, ladies' lingerie…"

"You wish." She pointed upwards. "I'm wearing a skirt, _you _go first."

He had to use only his left hand to make it up the ladder; he was still sore on the right, but he made it smoothly and soundlessly, found that the trap door was already conveniently open, then turned to help Bluebird over the rail. He had drawn the breath to greet his chums when he realized that something was wrong, _very _wrong, with what he saw in the barracks, and his training instinctively prompted him not to speak and to motion to her not to either until they knew the score.

"_Fall out_?" LeBeau repeated. "Just like nothing happened?"

"I gotta admit, Colonel…" Kinch said in a much less emotionally-charged tone, "I always figured when this day came we'd all be going out that door together… I think I need a little time to get my head straight."

"I can't go out there…" Carter wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his chin on his knees.

Bluebird looked at Newkirk… well, they were _late, _there was no doubt about that, but everyone was taking it pretty hard.

"Well, I _have _to," Hogan said resignedly. "I have to explain how I let two members of my team get themselves killed just a few hours before the Allied tanks rolled up to the gate, and I _don't _think they're gonna like it."

_Killed? _Did he mean _them? _Now too _stunned _to say anything, Newkirk and Bluebird stood in astonished silence while Hogan continued.

"I'm putting them both in for highest commendation for bravery above and beyond the call… anybody who'd like to be there for _that _is going to have to walk out that door with me now." He paused. "Well?"

"I'll go…" Kinch nodded. "For Newkirk and Bluebird."

"_Moi aussi…" _LeBeau murmured.

"I'll go if I can get up…" Carter added, looking vaguely sick to his stomach.

Kinch and LeBeau went over to help him, and Hogan started to attempt to get Klink and Schultz out of the doorway, when Newkirk found his voice. "_Dear_ oh dear…" he spoke up, shaking his head. Everyone spun around on a dime. "They call this a liberation party, do they?"

Bluebird picked up his lead… she just wanted to get those awful looks off their faces. "Maybe we should try Stalag 6."

"Oh, I agree…" He reached over to push his cap, which she was still wearing, forward to a more jaunty angle. "To look at _this _lot, you'd think somebody died."

The next sixty seconds were pretty much a blur… lots of yelling and back-slapping, hard to tell who was doing what to whom. "What _happened _to you?" LeBeau asked Newkirk, still hanging onto his sleeve to convince himself that his friend was really there.

"What happened to _you, _is more like it," Newkirk replied. "You were a little too quick writin' us off, mate… I find that shockin'."

"They blew up Gestapo headquarters_," _Kinch elucidated. "Ten minutes before five o'clock last night, right when Bluebird was supposed to be breaking you _out_!"

"I was early," she laughed. "I might have been speeding… a little."

"A little, she says," Hogan chuckled. "Airborne by Flensheim, you mean."

"So she really broke you out?" Carter asked Newkirk, awe-struck.

"That's right, mate… they handed me over to a knockout blonde Gestapo bird, I start givin' her a hard time and all of a sudden she calls me 'Peter' and flings her arms 'round me… not quite what I was expectin'."

"Well, that _is _your name… I mean, that's not what _we _call you… we call you 'Newkirk', not 'Peter'… but that's the kind of thing a _girl _might call you."

"Thanks for workin' that out for me, Andrew…" he sighed. "What did I ever do without you?"

Hogan stepped back from the fray a few paces and barked, "Newkirk!"

Newkirk came to attention and saluted, unable to quite erase the grin on his face. "Sir!"

Hogan snapped back a salute. "You're out of uniform!"

"_Thank _you, sir… I do me best."

Hogan gave him one of those famous looks of his as he donned his own cap. "All right, all right, we've got guests coming in the front gate and I want every one of you clowns present and correct… fall out."

That time nobody protested. Bluebird went too, slipping off Newkirk's tunic and returning it to him as they walked, and he plucked his hat off her head. "Looks better on you," he winked.

Avery was still in the lead tank, and he waved to the two of them when they spotted them. "Hey! Did we give you two enough time?" he called from the turret.

Hogan turned to Newkirk and Bluebird, looking suspicious. "Friends of yours…?"

"Well… you see, sir… Klink's car broke down near Düsseldorf and these chaps were good enough to give us a lift…"

"We had them drop us outside the wire," Bluebird continued.

"So we could come in through the emergency tunnel."

"And all get here together…" Her voice broke.

"Well, we're 'ere now," Newkirk reminded her, gently flicking his thumb under her chin. "_All _of us, together."

Schultz, taking a little break from his earlier panic, stood nearby, even closer to tears than Bluebird was. "Bee-ooo-tee-_ful!" _

And for once, Klink didn't dare tell him to shut up.

Hogan, Kinch, Carter, LeBeau and Newkirk lined up in formation in front of the barracks, standing tall and proud. They had done a good job, and they knew it. They all saluted the tank crews as one, and the salutes were crisply returned. "Colonel Robert E. Hogan, senior Allied officer," Hogan stated… no longer a POW. "My command… Sergeant James Kinchloe… Sergeant Andrew Carter… Corporal Louis LeBeau… _and _Corporal Peter Newkirk…" He knew he shouldn't grin at attention, but he couldn't help it… nor could he help that self-satisfied little rise to his toes that he often did even without realizing it when something had gone especially well. "_All _present and accounted for."

"Captain Howard Avery, United States Army," Avery replied. "Colonel Hogan, we're here to liberate Stalag 13. You and your men are heroes, sir, and each and every one of us want to shake your hands and thank you all personally for outstanding service to your countries. All the Allied nations owe you an enormous debt of gratitude. On behalf of the President of the United States of America, we welcome you back to the freedom you've given to so many others over the course of this long war."

"Thank you, Captain. We do have a couple of loose ends… you've met Underground agent Bluebird, I take it." The chorus of whistles from the tank crews confirmed that; she blushed and Newkirk looked vaguely put out. "These German soldiers are former Camp _Kommandant_ Wilhelm Klink, and Sergeant of the Guard Hans Schultz. My men and I request that they both be treated with courtesy and compassion."

"I understand, sir."

"Frankly, Captain…" Hogan couldn't help laughing. "We couldn't have done it _without_ 'em."

The tank crews called out a 'hip-hip-hooray', and then all tossed their caps in the air and burst into applause for the Heroes. Schultz, completely carried away, cheered as loud as anybody. Looking on, Bluebird felt bad for Klink… a little… standing off to one side with his head down, looking scared and angry. Schultz was so easygoing he could get used to anything; he might be running a hot dog concession at Coney Island in a year or two… but Klink was too conceited and narrow-minded to be able to happily start his life over again after losing two world wars. For the Iron Eagle of Stalag 13, it really _was _over.

**00o00**

She was really going to miss this tunnel, Bluebird realized as she climbed the ladder from the radio room up to the barracks. What were her chances of finding a first-floor apartment and digging herself one for old times' sake? It would be a great way to get the morning paper.

The barracks wasn't quite empty… Newkirk was there, sound asleep up on his bunk. Boots and all, she noticed with a sigh… the poor guy; he was really dragging. Well, there was nothing she could do about the boots without waking him up, but she took a blanket off a vacant bunk, stepped up onto Carter's footlocker and spread it over him without disturbing him.

The sound of voices outside tipped her off that the other guys were on their way back to the barracks. She hopped down to the floor and hurriedly picked up the newspaper someone had left on the table, and when the barracks door opened, she figured she had all her bases covered.

"Okay, hold it down for Sleeping Beauty," Kinch kidded, gesturing to the top bunk.

"The Gestapo kept him awake the whole time they had him," she reminded him. "He's beat."

"_Sale Boche…" _LeBeau grumbled. "I mean, except for Schultzie… I miss _him_ already. The _rest _of them are all _sale Boche._"

And then some… she knew some stronger words and she knew he did too. She went to sit down at the table, paper still in hand, and glanced down at it without really focusing her eyes on it.

Next thing she knew, LeBeau was standing next to her. "I didn't know you read German," he said with a little smile.

Oh, rats… the newspaper in her hands _was _in German. "I, uh… don't, really… I'm learning a little here and there, and newspapers are good practice."

He nodded in that intense way he had, pursing his lips. "I _see…. _and it must be a _special_ talent for languages that allows you to read it upside-down."

Kinch and Carter both started to choke back laughter, while Bluebird silently turned the color of LeBeau's sweater and wondered if Hochstetter would still be willing to kill her if she could catch a ride back to Berlin.

"_Désolé, mon amie," _LeBeau shook his head. "_Mais nous en avons tout deviné."_

"If that's French for 'the cat's outta the bag', that goes double for me," Kinch laughed.

"Heck, even _I _could figure _that _out," Carter chuckled. "You've got a thing for Newkirk, don't you?"

So she'd embarrassed herself in front of everyone except Colonel Hogan and Newkirk when he was awake… could things _get _any worse? "Don't say anything…" she somehow managed to say.

"We won't _have_ to… a few more upside-down newspapers and even Newkirk is gonna figure out something's goin' on," Kinch assured her.

LeBeau gave her a kind smile. "Look…if it makes you feel any better, we've known it all along"

"So I've been making an idiot out of myself for a lot longer than I thought."

"You're not an idiot," he assured her, quite seriously now. "You're a beautiful young woman. And luckily you're as smart and brave as you are beautiful. Lucky for Peter, or he wouldn't be here right now."

"But…"

"You have no idea how much he missed you. But I hope he'll tell you."

Well, he'd tried… sort of… in the barn… and she'd stopped him because she thought it was either gratitude for the rescue or a snow job to get her under the blanket. She didn't want to hear anything from him that was either untrue or filtered through an exhausted, half-starved, just-happy-to-be-alive frame of mind. He needed to get some rest, get his feet back under him, let the wounds start to heal… after that, if he had anything to say to her, she would be happy to listen because it would really be _him _talking and not a set of circumstances. If he didn't… well, she'd already made her peace with that. "Can we talk about something _else_, please?"

"Sure," Carter piped up. "Anything good in the paper?"

Carter found out a little more about the paper when she swatted him with it. Then, mercifully, Kinch produced a deck of cards and suggested a few hands to pass the time before dinner.

It was all good-natured teasing, she realized; they cared about her, and they cared about Newkirk. Nobody had said it was a _bad _idea, or that he already had someone waiting for him at home. His friends would know. Guys who had girls waiting for them were only too happy to let the other guys know.

Early on, Newkirk had gotten lots of letters at mail call… whether or not they were really from fan dancers as he boasted was a subject for speculation, but magazine subscription renewal notices seldom came on scented pink stationery. As time went on, she remembered that the number and frequency had dwindled. She'd wanted to write to him herself, from Paris, but she hadn't dared. It was far too dangerous for him as well as for her, if the Gestapo had managed to connect the two operations. She'd started casual letters that she thought were harmless enough, but always tore them up and put the pieces in the fire. It wasn't fair to compromise his safety, or that of the unit. She certainly hadn't forgotten about him.

But it looked as if his flock of fan dancers might have.

**00o00**

Hogan was used to several different reactions when he entered the barracks, but he didn't think he'd ever been shushed before. He followed the pointing fingers of the poker players and saw Newkirk in the top bunk, dead to the world. "He all right?"

"Seems to be," Kinch nodded. "According to Bluebird the Gestapo kept him awake the whole time they had him, so he's got some catching up to do."

"We got a few hours sleep in the barn last night, sir," she told him.

"Then he's losing his touch." Hogan studied Newkirk for a few seconds. Exhaustion by itself wasn't serious, but he'd taken a real pasting on top of it. It was probably best that he'd decided to grab some sack time. They'd keep an eye on him. "Watch him," he told the card players.

"_Oui, Colonel," _LeBeau nodded with a little smile. He knew the best person for _that _job… nobody could watch Newkirk like Bluebird could. She could deny it all she liked, but just before they'd entered the barracks earlier her eyes had not been on that newspaper; they'd been on the dusty, bruised, rumpled corporal on the top bunk.

**FEBRUARY 1943**

Her hands cupped full of every bracelet and necklace they had in their costume stockpile, Bluebird hustled into Colonel Hogan's office. "Okay, here you go…" She broke off short when she saw how things had progressed since she'd left a few minutes before.

Newkirk didn't look half bad. He had changed into the rather shapeless paisley dress and black shawl, and was in the process of putting on the wig and attached pillbox hat, his attention on the mirror in front of him on the desk, making sure it was straight. No, he didn't look bad at all… he _might_ actually pass for an elderly _hausfrau_ who could approach the guard on that North River bridge without arousing suspicion.

But it was still Newkirk in a dress… and she couldn't help but burst out laughing.

He spared her a withering glance out of the corner of his eye. "Leave off…"

"You look like my Aunt Ida!" she giggled.

"I feel sorry for your uncle," Kinch said.

"She's not married."

"Imagine that."

"Okay, that's enough," Hogan interrupted. "Let's get some jewelry on her… uh, _him."_

Newkirk nodded and forced a thin smile. "Thanks… really… I mean that."

Carter held up a pearl necklace. "Oh, it's _you_…" he assured Newkirk with a grin.

He suffered through the rest of their not-so-helpful suggestions on completing his ensemble… they all decided that Carter had been spot-on about the pearls… and Bluebird picked out his handbag, a small black purse on a drawstring that was almost exactly like the one she'd seen Ida carry to church a hundred times… perfect for a lady of a certain age, hysterically funny in the hands of a young tough from East London, even though embroidered gloves now covered the large knuckles and dark hair that would have been dead giveaways as to his gender.

"Perfect," Hogan declared. "Okay, Newkirk, you're on."

Newkirk declined with a warning glare several gallant offers to help him to his feet, which sent Bluebird into brand-new giggles. But she got hers when, on the way out, Newkirk swung the black purse a few times around on its cord and then quite deliberately smacked her in the middle of the back with it. "Oh!" he exclaimed in a high-pitched, pseudo-feminine voice. "I'm _terribly _sorry… pardon _me_, young man."

"Stalag 13…" Hogan sighed. "Where men are women, women are men…"

"And _all _of us are perpetually confused," Kinch concluded.


	8. Chapter 8

**MAY 1945**

They all looked up when they heard the colonel's office door open. "How's he doing, Captain?" Hogan asked.

"I don't usually use this word to describe anybody the Gestapo has worked over," Captain Crandall replied, "but the corporal is a very lucky man."

That _was _good news. "Glad to hear it."

"He's got some severe bruising on his right side… and his face, of course… but no broken bones. I can't believe he got out of that without so much as a cracked rib; whatever he's made of, it seems to give instead of snap. Same with the knee; it's bruised and he's got a moderate sprain, but nothing's broken. He should ice it to get the swelling down, and try to avoid any more cross-country hikes for a while. _Is _there any ice around here?"

"Oh, sure… we're chilling some champagne; we can use that after we pop the cork on a few bottles."

"The corporal can use some rest, food, and water… and a little champagne wouldn't hurt him. Other than that, I'm comfortable telling you he's fine."

"Thanks, Captain, I appreciate it."

'Fine', in spite of his assurances, was not the first word any of them would have used to describe Newkirk, who appeared in the colonel's office doorway a minute later. He was still in the game, though; didn't allow himself to be slowed down too much and moved at a pretty fair, if a bit lopsided, clip over to the table. He took the empty spot on the bench next to Bluebird. "Thanks for the once-over, Captain," he said.

"Don't overdo it." Why did that strike everyone as _not _being the first time the captain had told him that? "You'd qualify to be invalided out, if…"

"I'd like to stay with me mates, sir." And it wasn't the first time _those _words had been exchanged between them either… it probably wasn't a bad idea, all things considered, but there would sure be a big empty spot in the celebration planned for later on if Newkirk wasn't there to share it with them.

No, the captain didn't look surprised. "All right, but take it easy, and get some ice on that knee."

"Right, sir."

Bluebird started to get to her feet. "I'll get..."

"_I'll_ get the ice," LeBeau put in before she could finish either the sentence or the standing up.

She was right where she wanted to be, and Louis knew it. So she sat back down. "Okay."

The exam had taken a bit out of him, true, but he wasn't so far gone that Newkirk would fail to notice certain basic irregularities. The offer of ice wasn't one of them. "Carter?" he said with exaggerated patience.

"Yeah?" Carter replied.

"You enjoyin' that book, are you?"

"Oh, yeah."

Kinch reached over and, to Bluebird's considerable embarrassment, took the book Andrew was reading out of his hands, turned it right side up, and then replaced it. "Try it that way."

"Oh my_… whatever_ was I _thinking_?" Carter asked with wide-eyed mock innocence.

"No one'll ever have any idea about that until you actually _start,_" Newkirk informed him, shaking his head. "What is the _matter _with you?"

Yup... Major Hochstetter was looking better and better to Bluebird. Berlin and a merciful firing squad were just a short four-hour drive away. At least then it would all be over in a heartbeat.

Carter, Kinch and LeBeau just laughed.

**00o00**

Well, LeBeau mused, _this _was a switch… Newkirk watching Bluebird for a change. All he needed was an upside-down newspaper.

She _did _look pretty over there in the thick of the volleyball game. The fatigues fit her differently now than they had two years earlier, though… the pants, for instance, hadn't been designed to accommodate a young woman's curves. Perhaps it was the tailor in Newkirk that had him paying such rapt attention to that side of the net, then.

And perhaps Charles de Gaulle planned to operate a chestnut cart in the _Bois de Boulogne_, now that the war was over.

"_Bonjour_", he said, joining Newkirk on the sideline.

"Hi, Louis."

"Who's winning?"

Newkirk gave an indifferent shrug and took a drag on his cigarette. "Who knows?"

LeBeau elbowed his friend in the hip. "Good to see her again, eh?"

That got Newkirk to shift his stance, glance around at nothing in particular, and clear his throat. "Sure… I suppose… why not?"

'Bingo', as they said in English. "I knew she'd be a beauty… a Frenchman can always tell."

He nodded noncommittally. "Turned out all right, I guess. Hadn't really thought about it."

Much as Churchill hadn't really thought about the invasion at Normandy, LeBeau was sure. "Really? _They're _thinking about it." LeBeau gestured to the tank commandos all around her, both the ones in the game and the ones looking on. "I've never seen anybody so interested in a volleyball match in my life."

Neither had Newkirk. And if it wasn't for this flipping knee of his, he thought to himself, he'd be _in _that game… right next to her, trying to get that one bloke who looked like a bargain-basement Cesar Romero to mind his own portion of the field and let her mind hers.

It was the opposing team's serve; and the ball that sailed over the net was clearly in Bluebird's territory, but as she reached for it the show-off with the cheesy mustache dove for it as well, knocking her off balance and to the ground. Play stopped at once, someone whistled shrilly, the ball was held, and Newkirk didn't feel a thing from his injured knee as he and LeBeau both double-timed it over to see if she was hurt.

There were already a half-dozen hands extended to help her to her feet, and she reached up not really caring which one she took… then a very familiar one with an RAF button on the cuff was front and center, and she reached for that one as all the others were intimidated into pulling back.

"_Ça va?" _she heard LeBeau ask from her other side.

"_Ça va…_" she nodded, replying to the French question with a French answer by sheer force of almost two years' habit.

"_Tu t'es fait mal?"_

_"Non…" _Then she winced when she tried putting weight on her right ankle. "_Aie… si… la cheville…"_

"_What?" _Newkirk demanded of LeBeau, having had all he could take of words he couldn't understand. "Quit that… speak _English_!"

"Her ankle," LeBeau answered.

"Right… easy does it…" His voice remodulated to speak directly to her, he put his arm around her waist to steady her. "Let's get you sittin' down."

"_Wait _a second…" she protested, giving him a look. "Is there a three-legged race around here that I don't know about? We won't qualify; we're one leg short."

"Sorry, Bluebird…" The mustachioed soldier who'd caused the whole problem sounded contrite… but it wasn't enough.

Newkirk was about to tell him just how sorry he _was_ when LeBeau interrupted. "All right, let's _go…" _he said rather pointedly, mostly to Newkirk.

With the assistance of both corporals, she managed to hop on her left foot over to the bench next to the barracks and take a seat. "Do I have to change my code name to Flamingo?" she asked as Newkirk carefully elevated her right foot and loosened the lacing of her shoe.

"Let's hope not. That clumsy oaf… hope he doesn't drive his tank like that; there won't be a tree left standin' from here to Poland."

Captain Crandall materialized at his elbow just then. "Excuse me, Corporal," he said. "I think this is more my department."

"I'm _fine_," Bluebird assured anyone who might actually be listening to her. "It's just my foot, it's still attached to my leg, I don't see the problem"

"Let me take a look anyway… humor me, I've been carrying this bag for two years and I'd like to think it's more than a fashion accessory."

She spread her hands apart in surrender. "Okay, if you've got that kind of time to waste."

"Don't worry; my bill gets sent to the Underground." He got her shoe and sock off and tested her ankle's range of motion very carefully. "I don't think anything's broken. I'll put a support bandage on it just to give it a little stability."

It was a quick, simple matter to wind a length of gauze around her heel and the sole of her foot. "How's that?" the captain asked her. "Not too tight?"

"Fine," she nodded. "Thanks."

"Can you move your toes?"

She demonstrated. "Yeah."

He finished the figure-eight bandage and fastened it off. "All right, there you go. Try and stay off it as much as you can for the next day or two. It's a mild sprain, but it'll hurt. And you could damage the ligaments if you turn it again before it has a chance to heal."

"I'm not going far."

"One for your memoirs… you stormed Gestapo headquarters single-handedly and got away without a scratch… next day you end a volleyball game being patched up by an Army medic." He was smiling, so she smiled back.

Behind and to her right, Newkirk was _not _smiling. He found nothing to smile about here whatsoever. Bluebird had been mowed down by a showoff mechanic, and now the same medic who had checked _him _out earlier was behaving altogether differently than he had when the bare leg in question had belonged to an RAF corporal and not to a twenty-four-year-old girl. She'd _said _the bandage was all right, that meant he could take his _hand _away.

"I hear you're from Maine," the captain said to her, as Colonel Hogan joined them.

She nodded. "Lisbon Falls… it's about an hour north of…"

"I'm from Minot."

"Oh, you're _kidding!"_

Poor Newkirk, LeBeau mused… this just wasn't his day. Oh, it _could _be…if only he were a little smarter, a little more willing to _say _some of the things he was thinking right now. _Some _of them… not _all _of them. But instead he stood by silently steeping in his own aggravation while Bluebird and the captain confirmed that they both knew the same movie theater and ice cream shop in downtown Lewiston.

"Well…" Captain Crandall finally concluded, getting to his feet. "I guess I'd better continue my rounds."

"Someone else hurt?" Hogan asked.

"I'm not sure what the rest of the fellows might have done to Sergeant Hamilton, sir… when I saw them a few minutes ago they were lighting torches." He turned back to Bluebird. "Now, keep that elevated for at least a couple of hours, and a little ice wouldn't hurt. In fact, I'll give you the same advice I gave Corporal Newkirk, in the hopes that _you'll _actually _follow _it."

She did look for Newkirk, then. "Told you he'd check up on you," she teased.

He smiled, but it was forced. "What about a hand back to the barracks, then?"

"It's right _here_."

"Fine; then we won't need to pack a lunch."

Another round she was going to lose… she had no choice when he insisted on helping her to her feet. "You don't think this is ridiculous at all?" she asked Newkirk, trying not to lean on him too heavily.

"I think it's bloody insanity," he countered. "You're lucky that cut-rate Errol Flynn didn't end up breakin' your leg."

To tell the truth, there wasn't much she liked better than a good reason to put her arm around him… still, that made _two _of them with only one good leg each, and they looked more than a little awkward as they hobbled to the barracks.

Carter held the door. Newkirk got her sitting down on the lower bunk with her foot up, then took a seat on the nearby bench, and LeBeau appeared with more ice. "Are _you_ going to use this, or just drop it in the sink like Newkirk did?" he asked her.

"Use." Her ankle was starting to hurt in spite of the support bandage, no question about it. "_Merci." _But she had one extra step in mind; she unwrapped the package, divided the contents in half and wrapped each back up again, watertight, and handed one to Newkirk. "Here."

He shook his head. "It stiffens up on me if I don't keep movin' it."

"It's called _healing_… give it a try." When he still didn't take it, she set it on his knee herself. "Honestly…"

He took the other packet out of her hands and set it on her ankle. "None of your lip, Miss."

They sounded like they'd been married for ten years, LeBeau chuckled to himself as he returned to the _boeuf bourguignon _simmering on the stovetop. _That _thought amused him even more._ Jamais dans la vie. _A romantic fling in London, sure; he could see that happening. But that was all. She was too young, and he was too… Newkirk. Newkirk had the attention span of a mayfly when it came to women; he might _never _settle down. Oh, they were good for each other… he brought out the liveliness in her, and she occasionally managed to tap into that very well-concealed wellspring of genuine compassion that bubbled inside him. Still, when it came to girls, Newkirk was in it for Newkirk… he took more than he gave back and saw nothing wrong with that.

Yet, with Bluebird it _was_ different… he took _nothing _from her that he might consider his due from casual girlfriends, yet would defend her from any perceived threat… even just a clumsy staff sergeant with two left feet who had very nearly gotten a verbal blistering… actually still _might… _for accidentally knocking her down. It was all very complex… interesting… amusing, even… to watch Newkirk _give _without seeming to expect anything in return. There was none of what Schultz had always called 'monkey business' going on here.

In fact, LeBeau wasn't completely sure _what _was going on here. But it was very entertaining to watch, whatever you chose to call it.

**00o00**

Twenty minutes had passed and the ice was well on its way to melted, but neither of them were paying much attention to that. Newkirk was trying very hard not to laugh, but this had to be the fourth or fifth time she'd dropped the cards. Bluebird shook her head in frustration. "Sorry…"

"Well, it's not _you… _it's your hands."

"What's wrong with my hands?" she challenged.

"Nothin' at all, if what you're tryin' to do is get the last olive out of the bottom of the jar, but…"

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"Look." He showed her how the deck fit into his own palm, then put it in hers. The difference was obvious; his hands were larger and had a much better grasp on the cards to manipulate them without dropping any. "Now, I can teach you how to hide 'em and raise 'em, but I can't see that little hand of yours ever pullin' off a one-handed cut."

That was all she needed to hear to make her try it again… and again, most of the cards went everywhere except where she'd wanted them to go. That time he couldn't hold it in any longer and he started to laugh; she threw the few cards that remained in her hand at him and in spite of her frustration with herself started to laugh as well.

Just outside the window, Hogan and Kinch overheard and couldn't help cracking smiles. "It's nice when _all _the kids make it home for the weekend," Hogan remarked.

**MARCH 1943**

Bluebird pushed the false block aside and entered the cooler, carefully nudging the breakfast tray along ahead of her. The guard had just gone past, and wouldn't be back for over an hour… it had to be now. Newkirk was still asleep, and probably not very deeply, from the look of him. They didn't call it 'the cooler' for nothing; it was cold and damp in there and he was lying on the bare mattress with his arms tightly crossed against the chill. No blanket… rotten Krauts, she seethed. He had his boots on, another attempt to try and keep warm. "Newkirk?" When she didn't get a response she knocked lightly on the bottom of his right foot, and that got him to stir. "Hey, Newkirk… room service."

The aroma from the tray LeBeau had prepared had his attention a second later… usually not the happiest one about 'rising and shining', he was hungry enough to resist complaining about the early hour in this case. "That's why I always return to this hotel…" he murmured drowsily, sitting up and rubbing his two-day growth of stubble. "The service is tops… even if the rooms are lousy."

She set the tray down beside him on the cot and removed the warmer lid. "Our chef's special today is eggs benedict, tea, toast, and marmalade."

"_Marmalade_?"

She shrugged. "He tried. Who knows?"

Bone-tired, chilled clear through, stiff as a board from not being able to move all night on that threadbare flour sack the Krauts optimistically termed a mattress, he smiled anyway. "I'll let you know." And there was more than breakfast on the tray, his not-quite-focused-yet eyes had realized. "What's this…?" Oh, it couldn't be. "_The Times? _From _London_?_"_

"It's ten days old," she admitted. "Sorry."

He actually picked that up _before _either the food or the tea. "This is _marvelous_… how on earth did you manage to get your hands on it?"

"We processed a Group Captain Stuart out of Stalag 9 yesterday. He'd been carrying it for a week and a half but Colonel Hogan told him he had to ditch it before he started on the escape route. I promised him I'd find it a good home." Stuck in here for three days as a necessary postscript to a successful mission, having something to defeat the crushing boredom was a real treat and she'd been delighted to score that newspaper on Newkirk's behalf. They had so much in the way of amenities, but sometimes what mattered even more than a fancy meal was a little touch of home. "Oh… and here." From her front shirt pocket she took a cigarette and his lighter and handed them over.

"You should open a bed and breakfast after the war," he winked at her gratefully. "You think of everything."

"I'll weigh it with my other options. Don't let your food get cold; you know how LeBeau gets."

As it happened, he was starving… no danger of letting it get cold. "Had yours already?" he asked, taking a sip of tea.

She nodded, taking a cross-legged seated position on the floor. "Uh huh."

"What time is it, then?"

"Roll call. Klink had some kind of announcement to make; they could be stuck out there a while. And it's snowing again."

"There's something I can be glad I missed out on." The eggs earned a thoughtfully impressed nod. "My compliments to the chef."

"Anything special you want for dinner?"

"Shepherd's pie, not too much pepper, potatoes nicely golden brown…failin' that, anythin' that's not drownin' in bearnaise sauce. And I don't suppose you could bring along me shavin' kit?" he asked, not even half-seriously.

"I think even Schultz would get suspicious if you walk out of here day after tomorrow clean-shaven and smelling of bay rum."

"Possible," he nodded. "Not probable… I won't go _that _far… but possible." He noticed another small object on the tray and picked it up. "Blimey… haven't seen one of _these_ in a dog's age."

"Group Captain Stuart's lucky halfpenny… the colonel made him leave that behind too."

"Ha'pny," he corrected her. It _had _been a long time… and the coin, dark brown with age and worn smooth near the edges, felt good in his palm. He walked it between the knuckles of his left hand as he continued his breakfast with his right. "Got me start in coin tricks with one just like this… just the right size, this is." When he spread the fingers of his left hand apart, the coin had vanished. "Still workin' on gettin' Hitler to disappear. Please hold all applause until the finale."


	9. Chapter 9

**MAY 1945**

"The time we had twenty-two guys down in the tunnel, the detection truck was outside so we couldn't use the radio, and we almost had a mutiny on our hands downstairs. _That _was the worst one," Kinch said.

"That wasn't the worst one," LeBeau countered, topping off Kinch's glass of champagne. "I vote for the time we had to blow up three bridges in one night. I should have put in for ten cents a mile."

"No contest," Carter shook his head as he carefully balanced one cork on top of another on the tabletop. "The time I had to dive in the well for that code book. I couldn't feel the tips of my fingers for two days after that... boy, I can tell you somethin' about _cold._"

This was, in a way, even better than the liberation itself had been. They had just a few more days at Stalag 13, to shut down the tunnel system and clean up a few loose ends, before they all moved on. It was strange how attached they were to the barracks; they had the run of the place and could have been having their victory party in Klink's private quarters, but somehow they'd ended up _here, _at the same old rough-hewn table and pot-bellied stove, to sit and share their memories. For Bluebird it was the first time she had heard about many of these exploits, but some were fond memories for her as well.

"I'll tell you what the worst one was for _me," _she put in, definitely feeling the effects of the excellent French champagne they had 'liberated' from Klink's personal stock. "Remember when the three girl singers were taken prisoner and moved into Barracks 3?"

LeBeau reacted in the positive immediately; Newkirk took a sip of champagne and not-so-convincingly said "Slipped me mind."

"Your mind _can _be pretty slippery," Hogan chuckled.

"The colonel needed three women to take their place," Bluebird went on, "so he chose himself, Newkirk and LeBeau… so what was _I, _chopped liver?"

"Now I remember," Newkirk nodded. "You're right, that was a sticky one for me as well. I look all washed-out as a redhead."

"I had my reasons," Hogan countered. "You were young, inexperienced…"

"_Female_", she laughed. "You _had _a girl ready and waiting to take that undercover mission, and you sent _LeBeau _instead… a Frenchman who gets five o'clock shadow by ten-thirty in the morning made a better girl than _I _would have?"

"That's cold, Colonel," Kinch chuckled. "I'm on _her _side with that one."

"And while you guys were gone, Kinch and Carter and I processed a half-dozen airmen through the escape route, even with three men down," she finished proudly.

"Yeah… she sure worked like mad on that one. Had to stop her from going out the tunnel and yelling into the woods calling for more airmen," Kinch laughed. "She was pretty hot under the collar as I recall."

"Okay, okay, I apologize," Hogan gave in goodnaturedly. "I take it back; you're a very convincing female."

He'd second that, Newkirk thought to himself... he was glad it had been her and not LeBeau in that barn.

"In my own defense," Hogan went on, "I didn't _ask _for a female operative and I wasn't exactly equipped to handle one."

"How did I make things hard?" she asked. "I never asked for any special treatment."

"Are you kidding? For _one _thing, I had to watch my _language _in front of you."

"I've never heard you swear, Colonel," Carter put in. "I mean, Newkirk's our expert there… only all the bad words are in English so we don't understand what they mean." He thought about that for a moment. "No… wait…"

"We'll ask him to translate for you," LeBeau chuckled.

"No, I'm serious," Hogan insisted, holding his glass for Louis to refill. "There were three words I used to use _all _the time that I had to stop using in front of Bluebird, and it was really inconvenient."

"Which words?" Kinch asked, genuinely curious.

Hogan ticked them off on his fingers. "Newkirk's… not… here." Everyone laughed, and she felt the color creeping back into her cheeks. "Right," he said to Newkirk, "_you _can laugh… _you're _never there when I say it."

"He's right, it's not a pretty picture," Kinch confirmed.

LeBeau grabbed himself by the front of his own sweater. "Give me a Gestapo uniform, Klink's car, papers, a blonde wig and a gun, and five minutes ago is not fast enough!"

"That how it went, was it?" Newkirk asked Bluebird with a wink.

"Not exactly… I brought my _own _gun."

"If I didn't remember to say 'thanks' in so many words before, I'm sayin' it now." She felt his arm gently circle her waist and give her a squeeze… and then it stayed there.

"Same thing when we joined the swing shift at that cannon factory," Hogan continued. "_One_ little tiny hitch… Newkirk getting inducted into the German army… and she went all to pieces when we came home without you."

"That one might not have been so bad… I would've been drawin' from two paymasters," Newkirk mused.

"Next time we won't bother breaking you out."

But there wouldn't be a next time. The war was over. They could hardly say they were disappointed… and yet, it was going to be very strange to move on. Nobody had anything to say for the next minute or two… each of them was searching his or her own thoughts.

And Newkirk's hand was still on Bluebird's hip. So for once she decided to throw caution to the winds. It was easy for her to hold a gun on a man… she had more confidence and far more experience in that than she did in making any other kind of move, and the thought of making a fool of herself was never far from her mind, but this was a special night. Maybe… just _maybe_…

Her right arm slowly and gently curled around Newkirk's waist. She was careful; she knew he was still sore on that side no matter how many times he tried to brush it off as an unimportant concern.

Maybe a little _too _careful… he didn't seem to notice at first, then after a bit he looked down. It was just about to make her 'Ten Dumbest Things I Have Ever Attempted' list when he realized what was going on and gave her a smile… one of those to-die-for smiles that came as much from his eyes as from his lips.

LeBeau finally broke the silence. "Anyone for more _crêpes Suzette_?"

He had plenty of takers, and he got up from the table and went over to the stove. From that angle he could see Newkirk and Bluebird, each with one arm encircling the other's waist, which was out of the line of sight of anyone else at the table. He grinned behind their backs and gave a silent, attention-drawing wave to Hogan, Carter and Kinch… when they all looked, he performed a quick pantomime as to what was going on back there.

And _that, _Hogan thought to himself, was _another _reason to keep women out of Luft Stalags! Camaraderie was _one_ thing, but when it got past that point it was totally outside what a military unit could handle. _That _was when things got fouled up. _That_ was when…

He smiled and shook his head. So what? He knew how he'd feel if that bench Newkirk was occupying was empty right now… even worse than he'd felt every time he'd seen that empty top bunk to the right of the door over the last few days. He had his entire crew safe and whole tonight, and that meant more to him than anything else in his life ever had.

At the table, the topic had changed. "A _flaming arrow_?" Bluebird laughed.

"Courtesy of Little Deer Who Goes Swift and Sure Through Forest," Kinch nodded towards Carter.

"I missed…" Carter admitted with downcast eyes.

"That was _twice _he almost skewered the colonel," Newkirk said. "You're a ruddy menace, Andrew."

"So it didn't work?" she asked, disappointed.

"It didn't work until Newkirk grabbed it, pulled it out of the wall before it set the barracks on fire, and sent it right out through my office window, through the fence and smack into the truck full of jet fuel," Hogan finished. "With about six inches to spare… great shooting, Robin Hood."

"Thirty seconds later," LeBeau picked up, "we're outside for roll call and Klink is going on about the illustrious German war effort and their new experimental jet fuel… _alors, _here comes the truck, completely in flames, riding past the front gate… _c'était magnifique!"_

"Another fifty feet, and BOOM!" Newkirk laughed, gesturing. "Truck flambé, pieces of it all _over _the place."

"And Klink standing there looking like he'd swallowed his monocle," Kinch wrapped it up.

"I actually think he _had," _Hogan chuckled. "I gotta tell you; when I hand-picked you guys I knew you were all good, but I _did _have my doubts… I knew it wouldn't be easy to assemble a team like this one. Kinch, I was sure about… but as for the rest of you clowns, I had some serious thinking to do before I decided to sign you on."

Kinch certainly looked pleased. "Thanks, Colonel."

"Dependable, rock-solid, superior radio and tactical skills… what's not to like?"

"I'd congratulate you, Kinch," LeBeau said, "but I'm afraid he's not through with _us _yet."

"If you want to know, I'll tell you," Hogan said agreeably.

"Okay…" He closed his eyes a bit theatrically. "I can take it…"

"LeBeau… and I hope this won't come as too much of a shock to you… you've been known to get a bit emotional from time to time. I had to weigh that tendency against your skills and decide whether or not it was worth the risk to the rest of the team."

LeBeau rocked his head from side to side. "Oh, if _that's _all…"

"You stole a priceless painting…"

"For _France!" _he bristled. "That fat animal Goering didn't deserve to _look _upon it, the filthy _Boche!"_

"I rest my case." The others laughed… and then LeBeau had to as well. "Carter?"

"Um… yeah… okay…" Carter's tower of corks toppled, and he cringed as if he were expecting a dentist to start drilling. "How bad is it, sir…?"

"Carter, my boy, you have a one-track mind… which sometimes _jumps _that track. You're the best explosives and demolition man east of the Rhine, and maybe west of it as well… _when _you remember to set the timer. You can cook up a charge that'll annihilate absolutely anything… _when _you remember the name of the facility, where it is, and how to find the way back to camp."

"I'd say that's about the size of it, boy… uh, _sir."_

"Newkirk?"

He waved him ahead. "Be my guest, sir."

"Newkirk, the phrase 'loose cannon' was invented just for you. When I first reviewed your dossier I couldn't find any indication at _all _of any scruples whatsoever. Plenty of talent, all unfocused. Plenty of energy, all undisciplined. I needed the best all-around swindler I could get my hands on, and that was _you_, but I wasn't sure you had it in you to dedicate yourself to the good of the unit. You were the hardest one for me to decide on, and the one I figured would be most likely to louse us up. If I'd seen that start to happen, I would have had you transferred so fast you wouldn't have known what hit you."

"Taking a sexy Gestapo informant on a guided tour of our operation didn't qualify?" Kinch asked.

"Almost."

"I can't argue with that, sir," Newkirk admitted.

"I think I can save some time," Bluebird told the colonel. "I already _know_ what was wrong with _me."_

"Actually I don't think you _do_. I'll admit I thought headquarters was out of their ever-loving minds sending you here in the first place, but that wasn't what concerned me the most. You had a serious chip on your shoulder and you were trying way too hard… beyond your abilities… to be something you weren't yet. The only cure for inexperience is experience, and you were impatient. Cutting your hair and swearing off lipstick wasn't going to make you one of the boys. You had to give it some time and find your niche. You _did_… but you did it the hard way and you wouldn't listen when I tried to tell you that. Think that's a fair assessment?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir…" she admitted.

"I know I didn't make it easy for you at first."

"It made me try harder."

"You never _stop _trying."

"I learned that from an officer I used to know… great guy; you'd like him."

"Well, I don't know about _that_… would that be the same grandstanding show-off who taught you to walk into Gestapo headquarters with nothing but a handgun and start ordering people around?"

"You _do _know him," she smiled.

"Uh huh. And when he gets home they're either gonna give him a medal or a swift kick in the backside."

Kinch stood up and raised his glass. "To Colonel Hogan."

Everyone followed suit. "To Colonel Hogan."

"Thanks for a fun war," Carter added.

"You're welcome, Carter."

He was going to miss this, Hogan knew. Right now, with everything that was going on, he hadn't really had time to think about what it was going to be like to wake up somewhere and _not _have these four men right in the next room. After all these years it was almost unthinkable that it was finally all over. The end of the war, he couldn't be more pleased about.

But his time working with the men in this room… _that, _he was going to miss.

_A lot_.

**JUNE 1943**

Whoever had thought of putting a wall safe in full public view behind a bar, Hogan would like to have congratulated him. And then slugged him. Getting those negatives out of the safe in plain sight of the fifty-some-odd soldiers in the basement cabaret was impossible. Which was, of course, why _his_ team had been assigned to pull it off. The impossible was their specialty. Sometimes it just took a little longer.

He wiped the bar down for about the fiftieth time. It didn't need it; the patrons were all at the tables, but the repetitive motion helped him think. He'd tended bar for a few months back in Cleveland, and he'd liked that job a lot better… there'd been lots more girls. _This_ crowd looked like a five-year basic training class reunion; not a stocking seam in sight. So what _was _their next logical move?

"How's it going, sir?" Newkirk whispered from his hiding place crouched behind the bar.

"It's _not_," Hogan replied out of the corner of his mouth. "LeBeau's doing his best but the crowd's just not interested enough… people still keep looking around." On the small stage at the back of the room, LeBeau had run through just about every entertaining musical number he had in his repertoire, and there had been hearty applause from the soldiers but it wasn't good enough.

Then Hogan's eyes found Bluebird, huddled behind a crate of wine bottles. He brightened and snapped his fingers. "That's _it… _Bluebird, come with me."

The dressing room just off the main salon was full of racks of sequined costumes in all the colors of the rainbow… plus one colonel with a bright idea; she didn't know what it was yet, but she was afraid he was just about to tell her. "Sir…?" she asked warily, already beginning to worry that she knew what he was thinking.

"Find something that looks good, put it on, and come back outside. That's an order." He had to add the last part; he knew she was close to balking.

"Colonel Hogan…!"

"I don't like it _either_, Bluebird, if it helps… but Newkirk needs at least four minutes of complete cover to work that safe and LeBeau isn't quite pretty enough for this crowd." He grabbed a gown off a nearby rack; it was emerald green and sparkled like a firecracker. "What about this?"

They both saw the fatal flaw in that suggestion when they got a good look at the bodice. "There's room for me _and _LeBeau in _that_, sir!"

"Find something," he told her again. "Make it snappy."

That was _not _going to be easy, she sighed as he closed the door behind him… she didn't have anything _close_ to a showgirl figure, and those dresses were all sized with two things in mind. Two things _she _didn't have. But duty was duty… she plunged into a closet and started rummaging.

Several minutes later, she reappeared, dressed as close to the nines as she could get… she figured she was about a four and a half, maybe a five if eyesight were fading a little after too much schnapps. She had also made speedy but liberal use of the makeup table, and done what she could with her close-cropped hair. She tapped Hogan on the shoulder and tried to read his face when he got his first look at the result.

He arched an eyebrow, nodded… then looked a little less than enthusiastic. "Is that the best you could do?"

"Sir, those costumes are fitted for…"

"Yeah, yeah, okay… you look _pretty _good, I guess." He stepped back to take in the whole picture.

She had kind of an Edith Piaf look going for her… a stretchy boatneck top in basic black, a very short black skirt, fishnet stockings, and black spiked heels… those had tissue paper in the toes to keep them on her feet. Eye shadow, mascara and rouge helped, as did the peacock-colored silk scarf she'd tied around her hips.

"Don't you _dare _laugh," she warned Newkirk.

"Wasn't even considerin' it," he shook his head, eyeing her up and down. "You actually look a bit of all right, there."

"That's what I'm talking about," Hogan told her. "We need _more_ than that… we need some…" He reached over and tried pulling the elastic neckline of her top down to expose her left shoulder. Gauging Newkirk's reaction… an approving smile… he nodded. "We need to appeal to their baser instincts here, Bluebird. You read me?"

Their inner lech, he meant… and lucky them; Newkirk was a pretty good barometer. He was only smiling because he knew how much she hated this, and if he kept it up he was asking for a crack in the chin. "_Sir_…"

"Think Picadilly Circus," Newkirk suggested.

"Think Times Square," Hogan encouraged.

She knew what they wanted… with an exasperated sigh she pulled the blouse down to bare her right shoulder as well. "I haven't _been _there… how's Lisbon Street on a Saturday night when the pool halls are closing?" she snapped.

"Close enough," Hogan nodded. "See if you can… um…" He indicated what he was looking for with his hands about six inches from her waist; her jaw dropped in shock but he nodded firmly. Great… just _great_… fuming, she folded the bottom of the sweater under itself and started to tuck it up all the way around, exposing a hint of her bare midriff. "_That's_ it," the colonel nodded, smiling.

"That's _it, _all right; that's as far as I go!"

"That should be all we need… okay, get up there and sing. LeBeau can accompany you; he's done plenty of cabaret."

"Sing _what_?" she hissed. "I only know two German songs and one of them is _Stille Nacht! _Is Newkirk gonna need until Christmas to crack that safe?"

"Let's hope not… what else do you know?"

"_Lili Marleen… _oh,and _Der Führer's Face_; you think these guys want to hear _that_ one?"

"Then sing _Lili Marleen, _and _slow… _or even _twice_… but get up there and do whatever you have to do to hold their attention up on that stage. If even _one _of those guys spots Newkirk at that safe we can forget about collecting our back pay… and everything _else._"

The applause when she took the stage was more than polite, but less than enthusiastic. _Not enough schnapps_. She whispered to LeBeau what Hogan's plan consisted of, and he looked concerned but took a seat at the piano.

Trying to remember the lyrics, get the pronunciation right, stay on key, and keep an eye on her audience at the same time was daunting. She noticed one soldier starting to lose eye contact before the end of the first verse, and she did the first thing that came to mind… she sat down and crossed her legs. The young man's eyes snapped right back to her. Good… well, not _really_; she found it all pretty disgusting… but Newkirk was up there working the safe, his stethoscope firmly against the door so he could hear the tumblers, doing his best to hurry it along. She had a job to do, she was the _only _one who could do it, and she had to do her duty. All they could do was leer.

The next one she thought might be losing interest was lured back with a slowly uncoiling leg that rested its foot on the edge of the piano… that move got LeBeau's attention as well, and he hit a couple of extra notes on the next chord.

_Hurry up, Newkirk…_

At the front of the room, Hogan was thinking the exact same thing… but if there was one thing he'd learned about safecracking from looking over Lightfingers Newkirk's shoulder all these years, it was that it took as long as it took and no less. Trying to rush him would be a mistake. He watched the audience with one eye, hoping to keep himself between their line of sight and the safe just in case, and kept shooting anxious glances over his shoulder with the other. Finally, he heard a decisive _click _and then the words he was waiting for.

"That's got it, sir." Newkirk pulled the safe open, Hogan reached in and grabbed the packet of negatives, and the door was closed and locked again in a flash. "That was a sticky one, I don't mind tellin' you; those tumblers were…"

"Save it for your memoirs," Hogan cut him off. "We need to get LeBeau and Bluebird out of there."

"Right, sir." He took the stethoscope out of his ears and went to put it back in his pocket, turning around. "How's she managin', then, with…"

Bluebird was just finishing up, and according to Colonel Hogan's instructions she was singing the torch song as slowly as she possibly could. Every eye in the place was on her… except LeBeau's, which were closed so he could concentrate on his piano playing. She was sitting on a straight-backed chair, in the spotlight, one foot on the piano… how was that position even _possible _in a short skirt? Her left hand was trailing the scarf that she had at some point untied from her waist. She was…

"_Beautiful…_" Newkirk heard himself saying, astonished.

"I'm sure you're referring to her skill and resourcefulness under pressure," Hogan told him. "And I'm sure that if you're _not, _she's gonna have your head on a plate."

Bluebird risked one more shoulder check, disguising it as a sultry gaze into the distance… well, if Newkirk was finished, back underneath the bar was the place for him, not standing there staring at _her. _

"Newkirk!" Hogan hissed.

"You go on ahead, sir…" he said absently. "We'll catch up…"

The colonel gave his shoulder an insistent shove. "Let's _go!"_


	10. Chapter 10

**MAY 1945**

Bluebird scaled the bunk with reasonable grace and laid down. A thin mattress, no pillow, threadbare blanket… still, it felt great to be here. She'd gotten used to being stashed down in the tunnel with the rest of the secrets during her assignment at Stalag 13; it would have been suicide to allow her to stay topside all night, but tonight there was no one to do a midnight bed-check, no one to mind that she was there. She crossed her arms behind her head, drew up one knee and took a moment to congratulate herself before speaking. "'Night, fellas." She was well aware that anyone who heard those words could tell that she was smiling. Well… so she was.

And so were they.

"Goodnight, Bluebird." Kinch.

"'Night, Bluebird." Carter.

"_Bonne nuit, ma belle." _LeBeau.

And the one she'd been waiting for. "Night-night, darlin'."

It meant nothing. She knew that. It was one of his words, that was all… she'd heard him say that to countless female Underground agents, to Tiger, to Fraulein Helga… if you weren't a boy and weren't Gertrude Linkmeyer, you qualified as 'darlin'". It was nothing of any significance.

But it sounded so good. And she was _back. _And the war was over. And her ankle had stopped hurting. And… she was a little drunk. So she let the word echo in her head for a bit. _Darlin'_. What harm could it do?

That kiss he'd stolen on the tank, Newkirk mused… he shouldn't have. He knew that… but that seldom stopped him. They were friends, after all, and he _did _want very much to stay that way. She _didn't_ want to be thought of as a _girl_; she'd made that crystal clear a hundred times during her assignment at Stalag 13. She didn't think of him that way. And she'd been away a long time… for all he knew there was a handsome Underground agent waiting for her back in Paris.

Well… the bloke had better be on the up-and-up. A decent chap. He'd find himself answering to Peter Newkirk otherwise, and no mistake.

Colonel Hogan entered the barracks proper, wearing his customary pajamas and robe. All was right with the world, he told himself with a healthy amount of self-satisfaction… the upper bunk to the right of the door was occupied once again; the bruised but still insouciant corporal who laid claim to it was up there in that incongruous striped nightshirt of his, looking exhausted but happy to be home. Stalag 13 wasn't the Ritz, but it was still a cut above the Gestapo prison he'd spent the last few nights in. At least he could fall asleep here knowing that he wouldn't wake up with a knife at his throat.

And Bluebird… up there in the bunk on the other side of the room, looking like she didn't have a care in the world.

Sometimes it was a funny war.

**SEPTEMBER 1943**

"All right," Hogan told them. "Everybody knows the plan. Let's move."

The Gestapo cell block was dark, clammy and cold… they could feel it even though their heavy black topcoats. As they worked their way down the corridor, Hogan in the lead as was customary, all four of them stopped in their tracks when somewhere in the distance they heard a woman scream. Before the echo had even faded, Newkirk, Carter and LeBeau completely forgot what it was they were supposed to do and had taken three steps running toward the sound.

"Hold it!" Hogan snapped.

"But _sir_!" LeBeau protested.

"I said _hold it_… _all _of you. Keep your heads and stick to the plan or _none _of us will make it out of here alive!"

He himself wasn't immune; that scream had sent a cold chill down his back as well. He wasn't prepared to swear it had been Bluebird… but it could have been. He _never_ should have agreed to this, never should have let her assist the Hammelburg cell without asking more questions about who was in charge and what the mission would entail. They were all good people, but they didn't have the organization or the experience; they'd bitten off way more than they could chew and now three of them including Bluebird had been caught and brought to this last-stop-before-eternity. He didn't have any idea what kind of shape she'd be in when they got to her, but one thing was for sure… she'd be the worse for wear.

All the corridors looked alike. They split up and started checking the cells one by one, snapping open each peephole door and looking to see who was inside. Bluebird, Neptune, and Firefly had to be found first… then, if they could, they would come back and free as many of the others as possible.

"Colonel!" Carter called. "I think I've got her!"

Hogan took a quick look through the small hole in the door… yes; it was a woman all right, she had short dark hair and she was tied to a chair. That was about all he could see in the gloom. "Open it," he ordered.

Carter jammed the key into the lock with shaking hands. It went in but didn't turn. "Oh, for pete's sake…" He jiggled it. Still nothing.

"Hurry _up, _Carter!" Newkirk urged.

"I'm doing the best I can!" he countered.

"Then we'll just ask her to hang on a little longer… I'm sure she won't mind!" LeBeau snapped.

Carter finally felt the key turn. He shoved the heavy door open and all four of them burst into the dimly-lit cell.

It _was _Bluebird tied to the wooden chair, a black blindfold over her eyes. That was bad enough… but there also was a narrow cord around her throat attached to something up above, pulling her head up. She was breathing… but she wouldn't be for long if she relaxed her head. Her blouse was torn at the sleeves and collar, exposing a vivid grouping of dark bruises on her neck.

Hogan dropped his rifle and hurried to pick her up, lifting her high enough to relieve the pressure of the cord on her throat. Only a half-step behind was Newkirk, climbing up on the now-empty chair to cut the cord far enough away so as not to risk hurting her. He pulled down on it hard, and sliced through the taut filament with one upward stroke. If the man who'd put it there had been handy, the _next _stroke would have been for _him._

She barely had enough in her to turn her head away when she felt herself lifted up by strong arms and held tightly against a chest full of medals. She'd been restrained way too much over the past several days and every time was worse than the time before. "Put me _down…_" she moaned faintly.

Carter swiftly untied the blindfold. "It's okay… it's _us._"

She knew that voice… but it couldn't be… it _was. _There weren't two lopsided grins like that one in the entire universe. She turned her head back again to see who held her, and was relieved to recognize Colonel Hogan behind the thick mustache.

"Can you walk?" he asked.

"I'll try…"

He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, but he set her feet down onto the stone floor carefully. Her knees buckled at first, but on the second try she remembered how they worked and managed to support her own weight. "How bad are you hurt? Any broken bones? Internal injuries?"

She shook her head slowly. "No…" She wasn't about to let go of his arm yet, though… she felt dizzy and still weak in the knees.

"Do you know where Neptune and Firefly are?"

"They…" She swallowed hard. It hurt. "They're dead, sir…"

"Oh, _no_…" she heard LeBeau's voice behind her.

"Are you sure?" Hogan pressed. "How do you know?"

"The…" She had to say it, and she had to say it without thinking too much or she was going to lose it. "The Gestapo killed them… in front of me…"

A hand rested gently on her shoulder. She pulled back. _No… don't do that… don't do that or I won't be able to keep it together…_

"I'm sorry…" Newkirk's voice. "Did I hurt you? I didn't realize…"

"Colonel," LeBeau said from the doorway. "Time."

"Right. Okay. Bluebird, one more time, and I need you to be honest: can you walk out of here or can't you?"

She _had _to stay on her own two feet. If one of them picked her up again she was going to fall apart. She owed it to her team, and she owed it to Firefly and Neptune. None of _them _had been carried to safety. She wouldn't be either. "Yes, sir…"

**00o00**

"Okay." Hogan pulled the rear passenger door of the staff car closed. "Let's go, Newkirk, and don't spare the horses."

That wouldn't be a problem; he was more than happy to take off out of there as fast as possible. "Right, sir."

Bluebird couldn't believe she'd made it. She'd come close to faltering a time or two, but she'd always kept her footing and kept moving. When the car began to move, though, she felt overwhelmingly dizzy, and she started to put her hand to her forehead. That would be her last memory of the trip back to camp.

In the back seat, Hogan felt what had been a light weight next to his shoulder suddenly become a more substantial one. "Bluebird?" Her head suddenly falling against him told the story; she was no longer conscious. He pulled off his black leather gloves and quickly checked for a pulse.

"What happened?" Carter asked.

"LeBeau, let's have some light over here."

"She all right?" Newkirk called from the driver's seat as LeBeau passed a flashlight to the back.

"She passed out… maybe not such a bad idea." He couldn't help wincing a bit as he shone the light on the bruises on her throat. Those weren't ligature marks… someone's bare hands had done that to her. Choked her just enough to terrify her and then let up. "Don't stop for any red lights."

**00o00**

There was no discussion, there was just 'do it'. Looking back on it later they would never quite be able to recall or describe how exactly they had managed to get her from the car through the woods to the tunnel, in through the tree stump and down the ladder. But they did… smoothly, quickly, gently and safely. By the time anybody stopped to think about it, she was lying on the cot in the radio room, and the rest of them were just beginning to power down from red alert to a moderate, steady level of concern. "Kinch, get Wilson down here," Hogan said.

"Will do, Colonel."

"I know I'm naïve…" Carter said quietly, "so you don't have to tell me again… but I just don't understand how anybody could do that kind of thing to a girl… not even the Gestapo."

To his surprise, he got Newkirk's hand on his shoulder instead of cuffing the back of his head. "And this time they did it to _our _girl, Andrew… they haven't heard the last of this."

They were glad to see Wilson arrive quickly… _not_ so glad to be cleared out of the tunnel while he examined her. They all felt it… when any one of them was in trouble, the others automatically fell into a close orbit until the crisis was past. In hindsight, as they all sat at the table in the barracks, drinking coffee they couldn't even taste, it made perfect sense… she _was _a girl, after all, and as such she required a bit more privacy than would have been necessary if it had been one of _them _laid out down there.

When Wilson reappeared they were all on their feet right away. "How is she?" Hogan asked for all of them.

"Still unconscious, but I can't find anything seriously wrong with her. The bruises on her neck will be painful for a few days but there's no deep tissue damage."

"They wanted her plenty scared, but in good enough shape to tell them what they wanted to know…" he said bitterly.

"Lucky thing you got there when you did. She should be all right. Needs to take it easy for a while."

"Not a problem."

"I'd like to try and bring her around… would you mind coming down, sir? She doesn't know me very well… it might go easier on her if there's a familiar face."

"Sir…?" LeBeau asked hopefully.

"Would _five_ familiar faces be out of line?" Kinch asked.

"Could we?" Carter this time.

It appeared that Newkirk wasn't going to _bother _asking; he was focused on the tunnel entrance and not on the conversation. "What do you think, Sergeant?" Hogan asked.

He nodded. "Ordinarily I'd say it would be best to leave her alone until she had a little time to recover, but in this case it might help if she sees all of you."

They filed down quietly and took up positions within line of sight, but not so close as to be either overbearing or in the way. Wilson gestured to Hogan to come closer. "I think this'll bring her around," he said, removing an ampoule of smelling salts from his bag. "But it won't be very pleasant for her… try and take her mind off the initial shock; talk to her."

Hogan nodded, taking the small bench next to the cot. "Right… understood." For all she knew, she'd be waking up in a room full of goons instead of just about the closest thing to home sweet home.

'Shock' was an apt way to describe the way that horrible-smelling stuff suddenly pierced her consciousness… she moaned softly and turned away, coughing weakly.

"Bluebird," Colonel Hogan said calmly. "It's all right… you're back at camp." The voice was too close, too much too soon, and she didn't realize she was safe yet; she reflexively, blindly, swung an ineffective fist in his general direction. "Hey, _whoa… _no hitting officers, okay? I'm on _your _side."

"Colonel…?"

"Everything's fine," he nodded. "Just take it easy. How do you feel?"

"I'm all right…" She actually thought she _was_… nothing really hurt, except the muscles in her neck. "I'm ready for debriefing, sir."

"Let's wait on that," he suggested.

"But sir, while it's still fresh in my mind…"

As if she'd be likely to forget, Hogan thought grimly. She'd been tortured and she'd seen two of her Underground colleagues murdered by the Gestapo. "We'll talk a little later. Get some rest."

**00o00**

LeBeau shook his head as he collected the dinner plates from the table. "It's been three days. She's not even eating enough to keep a _real _bluebird alive."

"Can you blame her?" Kinch asked.

"I even made her favorite… _pâtes au fromage._"

Carter frowned down at his empty plate. "I thought it was macaroni and cheese."

Hogan got up from the table. "Kinch, let me know as soon as we hear from Mama Bear."

"Will do, Colonel."

Hogan went to the door of his quarters, knocked lightly to indicate that he was entering, and opened the door. To everyone's surprise, he came right back out again. "Where's Bluebird?"

"She's in your office," LeBeau replied. "Isn't she?"

Hogan's mouth set in a firm line. "Find her."

The four of them dropped their forks and went off in four different directions. This was not good. The harder she'd worked to be 'fine' over the past several days since they'd rescued her from the Gestapo had illustrated how 'fine' she _wasn't._

It was Newkirk who headed for the tunnel. A few sprints up and down the various branches produced nothing but an annoying cramp in his side. If she'd gone out the emergency exit… well, it would take more than one man to search those woods. In fact, if she'd gone out _any _exit…

No… there was _one_ he could check. The only dead end. The cooler. At least it would be a place he could say he'd looked. He ran down the connector and accessed the false block that concealed the entrance.

And there she was… sitting on the cold floor with her knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around her legs, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. He was relieved to have found her, yes… but suddenly realized that LeBeau, or maybe Carter, would probably have a better idea how to handle this situation. He knew a lot about girls, but not when they were crying. He cleared his throat softly to indicate his presence, and was not encouraged when she turned her back to him.

"Go _away._"

"I, uh…" He eased himself all the way through the opening. "I can't rightly do that, darlin'… Colonel Hogan needs you back in the barracks… he's worried about you."

Had he seen her crying? He must have. Well, she could forget about being taken seriously by him or by any of the others ever again.

The only thing Newkirk could think to do was to crawl over and lay a gentle hand on her back. She showed him what she thought of that by getting to her feet in a big hurry and stalking off to the far corner of the cell. "_Don't!_"

"All right… but I _can't _go away; I've got me orders."

And she was just about to tell him where she'd like to see him stuff them. She was sick of the Underground, of this place, of all the danger and death… of Newkirk and of everybody else in this stalag. What was she _doing _here? She didn't belong here. Colonel Hogan himself had told her that the first day he'd met her… she was worse than useless; she was a full-fledged liability. People near her got _killed._

"You want to talk about it?" Newkirk asked.

She shook her head. "No… I _want_ to be _debriefed._"

"The colonel's waitin' for the proper time, that's all."

"_Now _is the right time… so I don't have to keep _thinking _about it." Every time she closed her eyes, she could see it happen all over again… _would _it stop after she was able to give her report, or was she stuck with it for life? She was tired, and she was cold, and she was at the end of her rope.

And Newkirk, whatever he might think, wasn't helping. "It wasn't your fault."

"If I'd…"

"If you'd what? Not got caught? Sorry, it doesn't work that way." His voice was very quiet and gentle, and she didn't like that either… she would have felt better talking to him if he wasn't trying so hard to be extra-kind. She didn't feel worthy of that, not being the only one of her team still alive. "We've all been there, darlin'."

"You've _all_ been the only one to come back?" she challenged. "I didn't realize that… _darlin'._" Somehow the only way to deal with his quiet calm was to keep raising her own voice. "You've _all _seen a man shot in the head six feet in front of you before anybody even asks you any _questions_? I had no _idea _that was happening to _everybody_! You've _all _seen that much _blood_?"

Newkirk took the four steps that closed the gap between them and reached to lay his hand on her shoulder. He figured there was a greater than fifty percent chance that there would soon be a roundhouse right aimed just below his left sideburn, any second… he was prepared for it and willing to accept it.

She _did _turn, but it wasn't to hit him. She burst into sobs and hung onto him for dear life, and he put his arms around her and held her head against his shoulder. I'm sorry…" he whispered. "I'm _so _sorry… this rotten, _filthy war…_"

**00o00**

"Sir," Carter said, climbing over the rail. "Newkirk found her."

"Where?"

"In the cooler."

"The _cooler_?" Kinch echoed.

"Probably just looking for a place she could be by herself for a while… what kind of shape is she in, Carter?"

"She's…" He felt somehow disloyal to her, saying it, but he had no choice. "She's, um… crying, sir."

"Oh, boy…" Hogan sighed. "Well, I guess it had to happen sooner or later."

"Colonel…" Carter spoke up again. "My dog died when I was seven years old…"

"I'm sorry to hear that, Carter, but…"

"What I mean, sir, is… I cried. But I didn't cry like _that._" He shook his head slowly. "I've never seen _anybody _cry like _that."_

LeBeau closed his eyes. "_Pauvre petite._"

"How's Newkirk handling it?" Hogan asked.

"Newkirk's getting pretty… um… _wet_, sir."

"Well, we can dry him off later. Let's give 'em a few minutes and see what happens."

It seemed like a lot longer, but it was less than ten minutes later when the trap door opened. Everyone tried very hard not to look. When nobody appeared on the ladder in a few seconds, though, it was impossible _not _to do a shoulder check.

Then they saw Bluebird coming slowly… _very _slowly, one step at a time... up the ladder. She was followed closely… _very _closely, just one step below… by Newkirk, who appeared to be concerned that she might not be able to make it without slipping. "That's it…" he encouraged gently. "Nearly there…" She gained another step, and he moved with her. He signaled with his head to indicate that she would need a hand making it over the rail, and Kinch was first at the hatch.

Would this humiliation ever end, she wondered? She couldn't even make it up the ladder without help; who was ever going to trust her with their lives again? She'd be on her way out of Germany by tomorrow morning, and that was a _good_ thing… before she got any members of _this _unit killed.

She felt as if she should say something when she finally got topside, but she didn't get a chance… hands, _more_ hands, guided her straight to Colonel Hogan's office. It didn't matter. She was finished as an operative no matter where she was.

Hogan indicated that she should take the chair at his desk. Ideally she would have liked to say that she preferred to stand… but she didn't think she _could_, for long. So the chair it was. Very Victorian.

What happened next was anything _but_… a shot glass appeared on the desk in front of her, and someone filled it. And not with hot cocoa topped with a marshmallow. "Do you drink, Bluebird?" Hogan asked.

"Not often, sir."

"It's up to you. Sometimes it helps."

It might at that… maybe she could finally say what was on her mind if she had a little whiskey backing her up. She tried a sip. It burned her tongue. "Thank you, sir."

Under any other circumstances, Hogan might have at least rolled his eyes. No, Bluebird _wasn't _a drinker, not of whiskey anyway. She'd taken barely enough to wet her lips, and everyone else he'd ever had to do this with had downed the whole shot in one swallow without any prompting. She really was out of her element here… which made it all the more impressive that she was so good at what she had chosen to take on. "Bluebird, this isn't going to be pleasant. But it's necessary."

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like to debrief you now."

Of coursehe would need to know from her what had happened to Firefly and Neptune before he sent her wherever it was she was going. Cutting her loose would come later. "Yes sir."

Behind and around her, Newkirk, Carter, LeBeau and Kinch exchanged impressed glances. This young lady had grit. Kinch took a seat on the lower bunk and took out his pencil and clipboard.

"Why don't you start by giving me the whole story… then after you finish I'll probably have a list of questions for you." Hogan paused. "And I'd rather not stop if we can help it… it's generally better if we can get the whole report in one sitting."

LeBeau and Newkirk shared a worried look… they'd both witnessed these before, and they were rough. Newkirk still had a damp spot on the front of his uniform. The colonel hadn't seen the shape she'd been in down in the cooler; if he had, he wouldn't be thinking she could make it all the way through the report without taking a breather. He almost said something… but then something warned him not to, something either in Colonel Hogan's businesslike demeanor or in Bluebird's steadfast "I understand, sir." All right… he'd be quiet… for now. If the time came to intervene, he would.

**00o00**

"And that was it… then we showed up."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

No, it hadn't been easy… but Colonel Hogan had taken control of the process right from the get-go and kept it… and her… on track. She had shed a few more tears, but the tears had been silent and only occasional, not the full-blown opening of the floodgates she'd subjected Newkirk to earlier. She'd made it through the glass of whiskey but refused a second… if he wanted her to keep talking, she knew she couldn't keep pouring that liquid fire down her throat. She focused on the sound of his voice and followed his lead. She trusted him. She would miss him.

"All right… Kinch, when you get that report worked up in a final draft I'll need to review it and so will Bluebird… then we'll submit it to London."

"Right, Colonel." Kinch was also impressed with the way the interrogation had gone. He'd seen worse. "I should have it for you by this evening."

"Fine."

She couldn't stand the suspense any longer. "Colonel?"

"What is it, Bluebird?"

"When… do I leave?"

"Leave for where?"

She wished he wouldn't make it any harder than it had to be. "I know I'm off the team."

"Not until and unless _I _say you are."

"Colonel, everything that happened…"

"Wasn't your fault. You had some bad breaks. It was _nobody's _fault. You did everything you were supposed to, up to and including refusing to divulge any information to the Gestapo until we were able to spring you." He was using the same voice he always used, she realized… not a watered-down version just for her, but the voice he always used to speak to his men. "Are you _asking _to be reassigned?"

"No, _sir._"

"All right, good. That'd leave us short-handed and I don't want to have to break in a new operative if it's not necessary."

"Colonel…" She had to make sure he understood. "I wasn't very… professional… earlier. Newkirk can tell you…"

Newkirk had already told him plenty, without saying a word, from behind her back… he had the gist of it and that was all he really needed. "Bluebird… we're _all_ under a lot of pressure here, and we deal with it in different ways. Your way might not be _my _way, but it works for you. I _did _havea concern that you weren't willing to really handle what happened to you and Firefly and Neptune, that you were just trying to sweep it under the rug and move on. I wouldn't send you on a mission to the _mailbox _with that kind of attitude. That's why I didn't want to debrief you thirty seconds after we got back to camp like you expected me to. It just doesn't work that way. But no matter what it might look like to you, nobody in this room holds it completely together twenty-four/seven. If I hear from Newkirk or from anybody else that they don't have faith in your ability and they can convince me with hard evidence, we'll need to have another conversation. Newkirk?"

"Sir?"

"Any problem going outside the wire with Bluebird tomorrow night to signal to those aircraft?"

"None, sir."

"Bluebird?"

She shook her head. "None, sir."

"Then maybe you're farther gone than I thought… this man's a menace." He nodded to her. "All right, dismissed."


	11. Chapter 11

**MAY 1945**

It had taken him two days, but Newkirk had finally made up his mind. He was going to ask Bluebird to meet him in London. No more war, no more prison… just the two of them, a nice weekend, a couple of dinners, maybe a show… Jenny and Peter, two people with first names who could come and go as they pleased and could spend time together because they _wanted _to, not because they were under orders and surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards.

He pushed open the barracks door. Well, there was the _first_ hitch in his plan… Carter was the only one in sight. "Andrew, have you seen Bluebird?"

"Yeah… she's down in the radio room getting more details on her assignment."

Suddenly, that top-of-the-world feeling he'd had a minute ago dissolved into a numb throbbing in the pit of his stomach. "_What_ assignment…?"

"She didn't tell you? Came through yesterday… they're sending her to Vichy. Something about a French-American liaison." Blissfully unaware of how his matter-of-fact tone was slowly and silently devastating Newkirk's carefully thought out plans, he worked the next step in the cat's cradle he held. His ever-present gloves made it more of a challenge, but he seemed to like it that way. "She ships out tonight."

"Oh she does… is that right…" And when had she been planning to share this news with _him, _if at all? Carter had known since yesterday; Kinch must as well, being on the radio. He supposed that told him all he needed to know about how much _he _mattered to her. The numbness had begun to fade and was rapidly being replaced by disappointment… and anger. She didn't even have the courtesy to tell him she was shipping out. Hadn't the last few days _meant _anything to her? How could he possibly have been so utterly, completely _wrong _about her… just as wrong as he'd been with that Gestapo informant, and he'd nearly blown their whole operation because of that two-faced twister Gretel.

What a chump. Well, if this was how little he meant to her, he was well rid of her. The truth hurt… but he was going to do his best to find something he could take for the pain. A well-endowed blonde would appeal.

Down in the radio room, Kinch was busy jotting down the details of her travel arrangements for her as they were transmitted, while Bluebird stood by and tried to figure out how all this could have happened so quickly. All she'd wanted to do was let London know where she _was_; she hadn't been shopping for a new assignment. She could decline. She knew that. But why? Everyone would be leaving in a day or two anyway. This was a good assignment… an important one… she had nowhere else to go, and she couldn't stay _here. _

"Roger," she said into the microphone. How was she going to be able to tell Newkirk about this? How could she say goodbye to him without going all sappy and ridiculous? He didn't want to hear any of that. Not from her, at any rate.

She hadn't been able to figure it out by the time she climbed the ladder to the barracks a few minutes later, and that was unfortunate, because there he was, having a cup of coffee at the table with Carter. She had to tell him, and it had to be now. "Newkirk… I…"

"I hear congratulations are in order," he cut her off abruptly. "Carter was just tellin' me about your new assignment."

Well, then he'd done her a favor. "Oh…"

"Vichy…" he nodded. "Very important indeed. You must be very pleased with yourself."

"It's a key position…" she said, more to convince _herself _of why she was taking it. "They need go-betweens for the French and American forces… there's already been some trouble."

"I _see…_" he nodded coolly. "Well, then… good for you. _Vive la France_ and all that. Drop me a postcard… no, I imagine you'll be much too busy."

Vichy could slide into the Atlantic Ocean for all she cared… taking Pétain and all the other collaborators with it. What she really cared about was sitting right there beside Carter, calmly sipping a cup of coffee… but telling him that would make him look at her like she had six heads. They'd _all_ done a great job not thinking of her as a girl… maybe _too _good. She'd worked way too hard underscoring that point early on, and now it had come back to bite her. She had hoped he'd sound at least a _little _bit sorry to see her go, but from his tone it was clear that he didn't much care _where _she went.

Well, _she _was being pretty matter-of-fact about this, Newkirk mused… wishing the numbness would come back, since he preferred it to the dull ache it had been replaced with. She had a 'key position', did she? Fine… he'd look for her in the newsreels. Because he sure wasn't going to be seeing her across the table at the Red Lion.

**00o00**

Oh brother… her luck just was _not _holding lately. "Hi," Newkirk said as he strolled up to her in the compound.

"Hi," she replied, trying her best to sound casual.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

She shrugged one shoulder, both hands halfway up to the elbows in washwater. "Sure."

"What's a co-shon?"

"A _what?_" Of all the possibilities she'd been expecting, that wasn't one of them.

"Co-shon."

"Where did you hear _that? _Is it German?"

"I don't think so… LeBeau said it a couple times, a few minutes ago."

That East London accent of his would never make it on the Left Bank. But she was afraid she knew what he meant. "Why don't you ask Louis?" she asked, going back to her bucket of wet socks.

"I tried to. He wouldn't tell me, just said it again and kept walkin'."

What was she supposed to say? That Louis LeBeau, the Gallant Gaul, had decided to try and fix this mess by calling one of his best friends in the whole world a _cochon? _This was an impossible situation, but there was no need for those two to damage _their _friendship over it. Since Newkirk wasn't interested, he _shouldn't _be making any promises… he should just let her go so she could follow her orders and he could follow his.

_If you're not taking me with you, let me go... now! _

It had been a long time since that April night in 1942, but she remembered saying that to an Englishman dressed in head-to-toe black who seemed to take great pleasure in insulting her from the moment he'd laid eyes on her. They had come a long way… or so she'd thought, up until an hour or so ago. But putting his arm around her at the celebration had not been either misleading or false; they'd been at a party drinking champagne. No war crime there. She'd taken that kiss on the tank and lots of other things way too seriously. That was _her _fault, not Newkirk's.

All that passed through her mind in a couple of heartbeats. "I don't know what it means," she lied.

"Louis says your French is spot on."

"He's a native speaker… there are always going to be things he knows that I don't. Remember when Carter had to explain to him what peanut butter is? Same thing."

"Oh."

He seemed awfully quiet… that wasn't like him, especially with so much excitement in the air these days. She hated herself for not just dropping it, but she couldn't. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Me? Yeah. Fit as a fiddle."

Fit as _Klink's _fiddle, maybe… something in his affect was definitely off. "Good." He was still carrying around those forget-me-nots from the Gestapo; maybe he'd slept badly or something. It wouldn't be like him to admit it, that was for sure.

No, this wasn't his fault. If she'd thought it was, she would have given him the translation he'd asked for as well as the bucket of soapy water to remember her by. She didn't want to hurt him. _He _hadn't meant to hurt _her. _He wasn't a _cochon… _she was _folle,_ and it was _her _problem, not his.

**00o00**

"_Bonjour_", LeBeau smiled as she entered the barracks.

No, she wasn't mad at _him_ either. "_S'il te plaît_…" She was afraid she might cry, but if she did there was nobody she felt more comfortable crying in front of than LeBeau. "_Ne le trait plus de ça… O.K._?"

He set down his spatula and came over to give her a hug. "_Ne pleure pas, je t'en prie_…_assieds-toi_." They both sat down on Carter's bunk.

"_Vous êtes amis… ne gâche pas ça à cause de moi_."

"_Il est fou_."

"_Il est honnête… il ne m'a pas menti, jamais._"

"_Pierre_…" He shook his head slowly. "_Celui-là, il fait toujours beaucoup de bruit parce qu'il ne veut jamais rien écouter_."

That was a poetic and rather apt way to assess Newkirk… although she had so much trouble thinking of him as Peter that she was definitely not ready to think of him as Pierre. "_C'est vrai_…" she had to admit with a sad smile.

"_Dis-le-lui_," he urged. "_Regard-le dans les yeux et dis-lui que tu l'aimes. Il n'est guère génie mais il ne pourrait pas râter cela_."

"_Il ne veut pas que je fasse ça_."

"_Il ne sait pas ce qu'il veut. L'amour, c'est tout nouveau pour lui_."

"_Tu parles_…" she smiled sadly. Oh yes, she knew how Newkirk was… with any woman except _her._

He put his hand on his heart. "_L'amour comme ça… dans le coeur… il n'en a aucune idée. C'est a toi de le faire comprendre._"

"_Il ne m'aime pas… nous sommes ami-amie, c'est tout._" *****

They never did get to finish the conversation, because the subject wandered in at that point and in spite of the fact that they knew he didn't understand a word they were saying, there was no way they could keep talking about him as if he wasn't there. LeBeau stood up… Bluebird realized that it was on purpose, to block his view long enough for her to dry her eyes… and gestured toward the pot of coffee on the stove. "Hey, Newkirk… want some coffee?"

Not as much as he wanted to know what was going on… that was a diversion, and he knew it. He also knew Bluebird had looked him right in the eye and lied to him earlier… thanks to Colonel Hogan's dictionary, the one with all the words for getting into trouble with frauleins and mademoiselles underlined in red, he knew what _cochon _meant and he knew that she did as well. That word _hadn't _been underlined. So now here she was chatting with LeBeau in French… what _other _colorful words were being applied to him, he wondered?

As for LeBeau, he appeared to have changed his tune. That was interesting. There he was cheerfully pouring out a fresh cup of coffee, nattering away about the weather as if it were important, and Bluebird was…

When Newkirk turned around to ask her if she wanted some coffee, the door was open and she was gone. "Is she feelin' all right, Louis?"

The real answer was 'no, you're breaking her heart and all she feels is pain'… but he knew he couldn't say that. "She's got a lot on her mind, _mon pote_," he said.

_That _one, Newkirk knew… LeBeau used that one a lot, and it meant 'chum'. So how had he been advanced from _cochon?_ "Well, she'd best get her head together before she takes on that new assignment. She's a ruddy mess."

It was all LeBeau could do to bite his tongue hard enough to keep from letting the Englishman have a generous sample of French colloquialisms that would have made his head spin. How was it possible that the British Empire hadn't died out by now, if their men were this completely clueless about romance? How could he _miss _it? How could he sit right there next to her, with his arm around her and hers around him, and not realize that the gesture had such significance for her? She'd moved heaven and earth to get here so her war would end when his did… then she'd moved it all _again _to go to Berlin and take on the Gestapo to effect his rescue. She had done all of that because she cared so much about him, not because she expected him to reciprocate her feelings… but then when it looked like he _had, _she had started to get her hopes up and now it was a thousand times worse than it had _ever_ been between them. Short of grabbing Newkirk by the collar and giving him a good shake, though, Louis had no idea how to make things any better.

She wanted to go, Newkirk mused, turning the coffee cup around in his hands, running his thumbs along the rim. That was fine. It was a free country… again. She was a valuable resource to the Underground and to whatever it was about to reinvent itself into. She was intelligent, committed to the cause, resourceful, bilingual, hard-working… of _course _they needed her, and of course she had to go. Look at her… she probably had to beat the blokes off with a stick; she could do better than a roustabout like him, and she knew it. Like as not he'd be back on the carnival circuit by autumn, _if _he was lucky. If not, well… he was used to _that _as well.

And he was used to being left behind. It had happened before and it was happening again. He'd survive. He always did.

It had been great seeing her again… meeting the woman that little girl had become… she would be a success in life and he was proud to know her. That night in the barn would stay with him for the rest of his life… just _talking_, that was all, but it had been so nice to sit there in the moonlight, sharing the bread and cheese and feeling safe for the first time in days. Then waking up in the morning to find her nestled in his arms, all warm and soft and beautiful…

Or, LeBeau thought… maybe there _was _something going on in that ridiculously hard head his friend had. The coffee was going cold in the cup, but Newkirk didn't seem to realize it, or care. He was just sitting there with his eyes closed and his chin resting pensively on his fist, looking like he was hard at work trying to figure something out.

"It's simple_, mon pote," _he murmured under his breath. "Just tell her you don't want her to go."

**00o00**

***A/N:** Here's the translation to LeBeau and Bluebird's conversation… my French isn't perfect but I hope I didn't make any serious mistakes. If I did, I apologize, and please let me know so I can fix them! _Merci._

L: Hello.

B: Please don't call him that anymore, okay?

L: Don't cry, please. Sit down.

B: You're friends; don't spoil that on my account.

L: He's crazy.

B: He's honest. He's never lied to me.

L: Peter… that one, he always makes a lot of noise because he never wants to listen to anything.

B: That's true.

L: Tell him. Look him in the eyes and tell him you love him. He's hardly a genius but he wouldn't be able to miss that.

B: He doesn't want me to do that.

L: He doesn't know what he wants. Love is brand-new to him.

B: Yeah, right.

L: _This_ kind of love… from the heart… he has no idea. It's up to you to make him understand.

B: He doesn't love me. We're friends, that's all.


	12. Chapter 12

**MAY 1945**

Carter's voice interrupted what had until that moment been a completely silent barracks… and he'd been enjoying the peace and quiet. "Hey, Newkirk?"

Well, he didn't have to ask what _this _was all about… he knew where everyone else was bound to be. "I'm comin'…" he replied flatly, wishing it were possible to get away with staying right where he was. Who needed goodbyes, anyway? The person was just as gone with or without 'em. One minute they're there, next minute they're off to the shops for a racing form and nobody they know ever sees them again. That was how life worked. Might be lousy, but it was easy enough to figure out the rules of the game.

Especially if you'd lost a few rounds early on.

He was a little surprised when Carter sat down with him, rather than just nodding and going back to the tunnel. "Maybe this is none of my business…" he began tentatively.

It almost certainly _wasn't_, with a lead-in like that. "Then maybe we'd best not talk about it," Newkirk said, taking a long drag on his cigarette and not bothering to look at Carter.

"You really don't know, do you?"

"I know you're still natterin'."

"About Bluebird, I mean. She's _nuts _about you."

"Leave off…" he warned.

"No… I mean it…"

"Andrew, I don't know how to explain this to you, but _nothin' _about this is funny and I don't want to _hear _it."

"I know it's not funny," Carter countered in the same level, straightforward tone he'd been using all along. "I just figure… since you _don't _know… somebody oughta tell you before she ships out. Y'know… just in case…"

"What on earth would make you think a thing like that?" Newkirk asked, less hostile and more totally perplexed now.

"_Boy…_" Carter grinned faintly. "How long you got?"

"You're imaginin' things."

"No I'm not. Let me ask you something. Is there anything you can think of that happened between the time she found you in Berlin and now that… well, _wouldn't _have happened if it had been _me _she went to rescue?"

Put that way… yes. That kiss when they'd been riding on the tank…

Hadn't that _meant _anything to her?

"Think about it, Newkirk," Carter continued in that even, calm voice.

He _was_ thinking about it. Maybe she kissed _lots_ of blokes… pretty girl like that… been in Paris a year and a half. "Andrew…" he shook his head.

"Okay, then… let me tell you _this _and then I'll leave you alone. Do whatever you want. But that afternoon you both made it back here… Louis and Kinch and I walked into the barracks… you were sleeping… Bluebird was way over there."

"So?"

"So she was holding a newspaper like she was reading it, only she wasn't."

"How do you know and what does it matter?" he sighed tensely.

"It was in German, it was upside down, Louis called her on it and she blushed the color of a stop sign back home. Now I don't know what she was doing just before we walked in… but whatever it was, she stopped it real quick and tried to make it look like somethin' else. Heck, we've been takin' turns for the past day and a half holdin' books upside down just to watch her turn color."

Yes… Newkirk remembered that one time at the table… she'd been sitting to his left, he'd noticed the book and the laughter but hadn't seen any blush because she'd been sitting right next to him…

Right next to him. The ice… her about to go get the ice… and then _Louis _had gone to get the ice… back down she'd come, and Kinch had found that funny… _why_?

Her arm around him at the party… would a girl who'd kissed lots of blokes have been so tentative about a simple gesture like that one?

"I think she figures you aren't interested," Carter continued. "And I guess I can see how she'd think that, since you're pretty popular with… you know, _girls_ and everything… but I wouldn't be saying _any _of this except for the way you've _both _been acting since her orders came through. I don't mind a little teasing, but I would never embarrass her on purpose about something that really mattered to her. Newkirk… _you _really matter to her."

He couldn't believe he was hearing this… and from _Andrew_, no less. "She's goin' to Vichy…" was all he could think of to say.

"Yeah…" Andrew nodded. "I guess it sure looks like it." He got to his feet. "Not much reason _not _to." He studied Newkirk's confused expression for a few extra seconds. "I mean, since you obviously don't care."

"Of _course _I care about her," he shot back. "We _all _do. She knows that."

"Okay… well… we're _all _gonna tell her goodbye." He went back to the tunnel opening and got onto the ladder. "Better hurry... if you don't want it to end up like last time."

That didn't sound like Andrew. None of it did. Andrew didn't push like that, not unless…

Not unless he was absolutely sure he was right. Newkirk had heard that dead-sure tone from him before, but only with things like explosives… things Andrew really _did _know, better than anybody else.

Was he right about _this_?

He'd asked her a question that night in the barn, which she'd brushed off, told him she'd tell him later. But she never had, and with all that had been going on he'd nearly forgotten about it.

Carter was still waiting at the top of the ladder. "Andrew?"

"Yeah?"

"Why'd they order her back 'ere in the first place?"

Carter grinned… maybe, just _maybe, _the light had finally started to penetrate that thick London fog. "Orders…?" he repeated, as if the word were from another language he wasn't familiar with. And he descended the ladder.

**00o00**

"You got everything?" Hogan asked Bluebird.

No… she didn't. "Yes, sir," she said anyway.

"All right. The sub will pick you up at Bremerhaven, same as last time. Sorry we couldn't get a plane for you, but in the postwar rush we're finding that generals get airplanes, war heroes take the bus. Keep in touch. You know where all of us are headed."

Newkirk was going to RAF Uxbridge. She had the rest written down. "I will, sir."

This was not going well, Hogan realized. And he was pretty sure he knew why. LeBeau had baked her some cookies for the trip, Carter had given her a soap carving of the delousing station to remember the camp by… but Newkirk, whose clothes she'd been wearing when they'd made it back to the camp on liberation day, had barely said a word to her since her orders had come through.

Kinch gave her a hug. "It's been a pleasure," he smiled.

"For me too," she said sincerely. Carter was next. "Thanks for the soap carving, Andrew."

"Don't let it get wet in the sub."

"I'll be careful." A kiss on each cheek with LeBeau. "_Au revoir, mon ami."_

_"A la prochaine fois. Et bonne chance."_

_"Je te reverrai à Paris un de ces jours."_

_"Je l'espère bien."_

And then it was down to Newkirk, who had just descended the ladder and joined the end of the line. She offered him her hand… a hug seemed out of place. "Bye, Newkirk."

"Goodbye." He took her hand… and placed something in it.

"What's this?" It was small, and shiny, and… _hers_.

"You dropped that," he went on.

She stared at it in disbelief. "I _lost _it… _years_ ago."

"You dropped it on the Flensheim Bridge the night we blew it up… November 1943. I saw it and I picked it up…" He seemed very ill at ease for some reason. "I meant to give it back to you that night, but I forgot… the next day I got sent to Tubigen, and when I came back you were gone."

The small gold charm in the shape of a pine tree had been attached to the chain on her wrist… _securely_, so she'd thought. "I never should have worn it," she shook her head. "That's a stupid kid's mistake."

"You weren't a stupid kid."

"Well, thanks for that… _and_ for this. I can't believe you still have it after all this time." She placed it carefully in the small pouch containing her travel documents.

She started up the ladder, stopping when she heard Newkirk's voice again. "Jenny…?"

"_Jenny_?" Hogan, Kinch, Carter and LeBeau repeated.

"That's right…" Newkirk nodded, taking a step forward. "I have a message for Jenny Kimball… it's important."

She turned around. "I'll see that she gets it."

"Don't get on the sub…"

"What?"

"I said, don't get on that sub." He took another step forward… well, he'd started it, now he had no choice but to finish it, whatever the outcome might be. "What do you want to do that for anyway? The war's over. Why not go back to real life?"

"I haven't got one," she said simply. "They can use me in Vichy."

"Didn't you ever think it might be nice to… maybe… see somethin' of the world… or England, maybe… I mean, as long as you're 'ere?"

"Yeah," she nodded. In fact, she certainly had. But she was _not _going to be guilty of taking an innocent remark too seriously again.

"Well… what do you say?"

"What are _you _saying?" she countered. "I don't have any idea what you mean."

He was trying, he really _was, _this wasn't easy for him and he didn't appreciate being mucked about with. "Don't you?" he challenged. "I _kissed _you, or don't you remember?_"_

"I pulled _you_ out of a moldy rat-hole a hundred feet underneath Gestapo headquarters!" she threw back, starting to get angry. "You would have kissed _Carter!"_

_"Not _on the _lips!"_

LeBeau rubbed his hands together and broke into a smile. "Just like old times… maybe the war's _not _over."

"I think we'd better leave them alone for a minute," Hogan suggested.

"Just when it's getting _good?" _Louis folded his arms and stood his ground. "I'm staying right here. This'll be even better than the _Comédie Française; _I've seen their act before."

It really wouldn't have mattered whether they were there or not; Newkirk and Bluebird had lit one another's fuse, and it had _never _mattered who was around when the fur started to fly. "So maybe I _was_ fool enough to get my hopes up!" she fired at him. "Maybe I _did _want to think I knew what that kiss meant to you… because I _know _what I wanted it to mean to _me!"_

_"_Do you have any idea how many things I've ever hung onto for a year and a half_?" _he shot back. "My _name _is the only thing that's been with me that long!" The angrier he got, the more his accent became pronounced. "I kept that stupid tree because it was _yours, _and I _missed _you, and I never got to say goodbye, and I don't care to be sayin' it _now_!"

"So what does that _mean?" _she pressed.

"Your _French _may be good, Miss, but you can't understand English worth a hill of beans!"

"You haven't _said_ anything for me to understand!" Okay, they weren't getting anywhere _his _way; maybe they'd try _hers. _"I came back here when I knew the Allies were on their way because I wanted to be liberated with _you. _Nobody tried to stop me from going to Berlin because they knew they _couldn't. _I almost shot that Kraut sergeant when I saw how bad you were hurt! I almost _had _to, because I _almost _couldn't keep myself from blowing my cover while you stood there bleeding and droning your name, rank and serial number, because _I love you!"_

Silence, except for the soft hum of the radio. She took the next three rungs of the ladder as if the thing were on fire.

"You know what _I _want?" Newkirk shouted after her.

"I _couldn't_ care _less_!"

"I wanta get out of this flippin' army, go back to Blackheath, sew suits that don't have insignia on 'em, and I want to do that with a woman who can single-handedly frighten Kraut sergeants out of their socks!" he bellowed.

She stopped cold and looked back. "You… you _do…?"_

He risked a one-sided smile and lowered his voice. "Now a _girl _won't do, mind you… it's got to be a _woman_ who wants to take up with a tailor in Blackheath and tell the same old war stories time and again." He took one more step towards the ladder. "Know anyone who might be interested? Or are they all gone off on bleedin' submarines?"

"You're in luck; I think there's one left," Kinch smiled.

"But you better move fast, 'cause we're almost out of stock," Hogan added, looking from one to the other. "We're not expecting another delivery until World War Three."

Newkirk wasn't prepared to wait; he picked her right off the ladder, and she dropped her document pouch and held onto his shoulders. "Careful_", _she warned. "Your ribs…"

"My ribs are fine… I thought you _wanted _to go to Vichy…"

"I thought _you_ didn't care _where _I went…"

"Holy _moley…_" Kinch said as she wrapped her arms around Newkirk's neck and they met in a kiss. "Where did _that_ come from?"

"Kinch, I think you'd better cancel the sub," Hogan said.

"Right, Colonel."

"See if they'll send flowers instead."

LeBeau tapped Newkirk on the shoulder. "_Excuse-moi…"_ he smiled.

"I'm _busy_, Louis…"

"Yes, I can see that… but when you have a moment? It's very important."

Newkirk set Bluebird down reluctantly. "What is it, then?"

It was fair to say that the good whack on the shoulder he got from LeBeau's beret sincerely surprised him. "_Toi! Imbécile! Dément! Epais comme… comme je n'en sais quot!"_

"Louis!" Bluebird protested, not quite able to keep from laughing. "_Tu m'as promis! Arrête!"_

"I promised you I wouldn't use _that _word. I know _lots _of words!" He hit Newkirk again. "_Bête!"_

Newkirk attempted to maneuver so Bluebird was between himself and the flying beret. "I'm guessin'… _ow… _that _none_ of that is _good_…"

"_Fou! Espèce de…_" That time he interrupted himself before Bluebird could get a "_ça suffit_" in edgewise. "You _still _don't know what you are doing, _do_ you? You English! You didn't even remember to tell her that you love her!"

"Yes I did…" He looked at her hopefully. "Didn't I…?

"Um…" She had to be honest. "I, uh… don't think so…"

He turned back to LeBeau. "Let me 'ave it _again_, would you, Louis?" But LeBeau wasn't the only one who was waiting, and he had something important he had to do… he took her face very gently in his hands, looked straight into her eyes and smiled. His hands were shaking. "I love you…" he said slowly, making sure every word counted, determined not to rush it or gloss it over… this time he really needed to make sure they understood one another; there had been too many times when they had failed dismally to communicate, even speaking the same language… or at least something _close_. "And we'd best get you a beret… you're likely to be needin' one, dealin' with me."

"I don't think so," she smiled.

"You came all the way back here… for _me…_?" She nodded. "I don't understand..."

What was so special about _him? _He knew he wasn't the best-looking bloke in the world… or the smartest… _definitely _not the richest, or the one with the brightest future, or anything of that sort. What made her think there was something so special about him that he was worth going to all that trouble for? No one else had ever thought so.

And yet… there would be plenty of time. Maybe, eventually, she could explain it to him so he _could_ understand.

**00o00**

"What do you think, Louis?" Andrew asked eagerly.

If he lived to be a hundred, Hogan didn't think he would ever have seen their favorite French chef standing next to a fire in a dry rain barrel and eating a s'more… let alone give it a nod. "_Pas mal," _was LeBeau's verdict.

"Do they make 'em different where you come from, Bluebird?"

She shook her head. "No, this is how we used to do it at the Labor Day picnics at the mill."

"I think both Maine and Indiana must be very odd places," Newkirk mused, watching Kinch trying to assemble his without dropping any of the components.

"Do they make them in Detroit, Kinch?" LeBeau inquired.

"Are you kiddin'? In Detroit, if you see a fire you pull a call box." He finally managed to put his together and try it. "Hey, not bad."

"I think they made them at Boy Scout camp when I was a kid," Hogan said. "But I was always too busy trying to find a way to sneak into the Girl Scout camp next door."

The sound of an approaching plane had their attention right away. Old instincts told them to get ready to take cover, but then they looked up and spotted, still barely visible in the last bit of daylight, an American insignia on its wings.

"C-47," Hogan said.

"About five hundred feet," Kinch estimated.

"That's a beautiful sight."

The pilot couldn't see them _or _hear them, but they all waved, cheered and whistled anyway. Then they saw the plane drop something… not something solid, but what looked like very big snowflakes. The way the breeze was blowing, most of them scattered to their west, but a handful landed inside the wire. Bluebird sprinted over to the nearest one, pinned it with her foot and bent to pick it up. It was a leaflet, in three languages. "No real news, Colonel," she called over. "War's over."

"Do tell," he chuckled. "Same old Army, right on the ball. Anything in there about the surrender at Appomattox? I've heard rumors."

She brought the piece of paper back to the group, scanning it. "Just asking everybody to take it easy and be patient, basically… 'Attention Citizens', '_Attention Citoyens_', and it's in German of course."

"Oh…" Carter said. "Wait… hang on." He reached over, took the notice out of her hands, turned it upside down and then gave it back to her. "There you go," he nodded.

Kinch and LeBeau burst out laughing, and again she felt herself blushing to the roots of her hair. But what of it? It _was _funny… _now… _so she laughed as well. And she looked at Newkirk… yes, when he could _see _her looking at him. He was smiling as if he understood just the barest hint of what was going on. "Do I need to know what's so funny?"

"I'll tell you later."

"Sure… maybe even by 1974." Kinch's remark got them laughing all over again.

Newkirk slipped a thumb under her chin and their eyes met… and held. "I lied to you."

"Yeah?"

He reached into his pocket and showed her what he took out. There in the palm of his hand was a halfpenny piece… the _same _one, she realized, _had _to have been, that she had put on his breakfast tray in the cooler two years earlier. "That bauble of yours _isn't_ the only thing I ever kept. Thought it might bring me luck… 'course, we may have to live on it."

"Don't worry, I've got eight _centimes _left over from Paris… we're good to the end of the week_."_


	13. Chapter 13  Epilogue

Well… this was it.

Hogan took one last glance around the empty barracks. Pretty soon nobody at Stalag 13 would remember the name Robert Hogan. It surprised him to find that he actually felt a sense of loss… this was a _prison_, a cold, bleak, dangerous, horrible place to spend four years of the prime of your life, with privation and threats and lice and so many other unpleasant things a fact of daily life, a big rat trap surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire. What was there to _miss?_

Kinch. Carter. Newkirk. LeBeau. It would be strange just waking up someplace else, knowing they weren't all right in the other room, waiting to have him tell them what they had to do next. He knew he should feel relief that all that responsibility was off his shoulders… and yet he was going to miss that too.

He was almost out the door when he heard his name called from behind. "Colonel Hogan?" He turned. Baker, the radio man who'd relieved Kinch, was at the top of the ladder holding the clipboard. Now, Kinch and the radio… _that _had been a tough farewell, and Hogan was pretty sure Kinch hadn't left without at least one tube in his pocket as a memento of his old friend.

"Yes, Baker?"

"Message, sir."

"Give it to Colonel Crittendon, would you, Sergeant?" All this was Crittendon's problem now; he finally had his command at Stalag 13, and a completely empty POW camp was right up his alley; there was very little here even _he_ could foul up. Just when the war was finally over, headquarters was getting very good at making their assignments.

"It's for you, sir," Baker said. "Marked personal."

"I can see I'll have to file a change of address." Hogan took the clipboard from Baker and glanced at the young sergeant's unfamiliar printing.

ARRIVED SAFELY UXBRIDGE.

He laughed when he saw the signature line.

BLUEBIRD… AND BIRDWATCHER.

He tore the top sheet off the pad, folded it, and put it in his pocket. "Thanks, Baker… I think this is what they call a 'keeper'".

**THE END**

**A/N Thanks to all who read, and special thanks to everyone who commented! I appreciate the time you took to offer feedback, and I'm glad that many of you enjoyed the story.**


End file.
